The Supper
The Supper On the third day of starvation, there you were to feed me the outstretched and tortured night through a crack under the door. (i was sure i would die.) There you were to feed me the reputation of punishment apprehensively spilling into the room, forcing grim moments to torture visibly shocked eyes. (my friend, what happened to you?) There you were to feed me a bowl of secluded struggles, a forgotten execution, the low ceiling of black cries. (you’re blinded by dirty work.) There you were to feed me a large, thin broth containing the screams of others, food left dirty after being tortured. (you had forgotten kindness.) There you were to feed me stories of smuggling money and gems, of working to buy the only piece of light behind the doorway. (are they true?) Starving a few moments ago, my appetite has now left, as you predicted. By Sam McPhillips
