after Una Marson
At this table, we say grace
and watch the angels
eat raw meat with their bare,
white hands.
We are polite,
so we don't acknowledge
the blood on their hands,
their faces, their wings,
their hair, their expensive
suits, their expensive
shoes.
At this table, we sit quietly
and look down at our laps,
fidgeting in our iron chairs,
unused to such shameless
luxury.
We are polite,
so we don't mention
how uncomfortable
our seats are, delighted
to have been given a seat
at the table, no matter
how unpleasant.
At this table, we eat nothing
but gratitude. The angels
eat everything but
shame.
We are polite,
so we don't speak
unless we are spoken to.
At this table, we are civilized.
We sit up straight. We smile.
We accept what we are given.
We take nothing—
We want nothing—
We ask for nothing more.
Though your skin is black,
an angel says conversationally,
drops of blood shot like arrows through the air,
your hearts are white and so
you are still our children.
Our hearts are white,
we repeat.
The angel nods.
We are polite,
so we repeat, Our skin is black
but our hearts are white.
The angel nods.
We are polite.
Our hearts are white.
We are hungry.
The angel nods, pleased,
and continues to eat.
We are polite
and hungry.
We are politely hungry.
YOU ARE READING
THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR
שיריםAt birth, we are all sentenced to life- to live. Highest Rankings: #4 in poembook #4 in poemcollection © z. t. corley, 2024
