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