The Dinner Party

It’s a dinner party

where nothing ever happens.

No one risks the sentence

that would split the table open.

Life stays unresolved,

politely.

So we cling to the chairs,

time the ovens,

wonder if there’s another bottle

hiding in the closet.

I attend these dinners,

again and again,

each time

more starving.

Like the truth.

hiding in a foreign tongue,

I am a ruptured esophagus

trading wine for blood.