Every night a feast.
The spread goes for days,
or years: fresh-baked
breads with pomegranate jam,
pomegranate-braised pheasant
and lamb, pomegranate spiced pears
and honeyed apples.
The dead eat past their fill
and still more, beyond bodies,
beyond hunger, they bloat
with the taste: the last bites
of rose water pudding, last
licks of molasses and meringue.
She watches.
At the far end of the table,
she waits and watches this feast
and its host, his mouth, the roving
tongue behind the teeth; her plate
empty, no drink in her glass,
fork and knife on each side,
folded napkin in her lap, she,
waiting, hungry—hunger,
her last refuge.
In her stomach: furious,
inflamed as a hive,
tiny nestling, little mite,
single blood-red seed.
from ErouFind more by Maya Phillips at the library
Copyright © 2019 Maya Phillips
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.