Dinner at Your House
by Rita Krane

The word
rolled around in soft of palm till smooth like water-washed.
Hush, I say.
You know well the word that sounds loud in rooms crowded and empty.
It undulates on unbending tongue.

Let's all have dessert now. Pass the papaya pie please.
We do what's common;
spread our weight around chairs,
ballet through mine fields,
chew thoroughly,
while the thing eats your testicles from the inside and
spills and spills into your good body.

We have nothing real to offer you
as you are slowly dying over unsweetened tea;
twenty six and quiet-just eyes sing,
"come on over love onto this shore of mine,
come on over love, just throw me a towline".

We are tired and clumsy.
Still, the clicks of cutlery continue to meter the hour
(as if measurements are what is needed now).
Your mute smile stretches skin to underline bald.
We are all sorry we came.

Rita is a member of the Class of 2009.