At your table

Here we are in the red
room where the table
gleams with
epicurean temptation
and you
fumble with your
napkin, your knife
a silver clatter
on your plate

fingers stained
before you’ve
raised the fork to
your teeth. My
eyes, persephone
seeds in a grisly skull
painted with crimson
and black, looking at
you in the hungry way
you say
you adore. Hands folded
in holy invocation.

Violins burn like empty
coffins in the fireplace.
All of our sins and hope,
laid before our mouths
in a banquet of
rescinded wisdom and
gluttonous tongues.
A divine immolation
in reach of our
quivering bodies,

and the hour is now
to swallow down
our valor
and taste the sordid
delight, roasted hearts
and words simmering
with asinine love
and nothing.

A cornucopian
glory to spit into the sink
and throw out
with the ashtrays,
to rot in the river
by morning.

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