Dinner Party
We do not know the creatures
with whom we feast, not really,
using the correct fork,
keeping the napkins in our laps.
Underneath we pulsate like novas,
pant like fish out of water,
beat like drums before a sacrifice.
The temples of our bodies glow
with secrets that make us
as warm as the firelight.
We push down our wildness,
hold our raucous laughter in check,
drink wine with our pinkies up,
speak in soft tones about what, we will forget.
But underneath we are feral,
sniffing in the woods under a jaundiced moon,
gushing forth like waterfalls in spring.
We keep so much under wraps,
the good china of our souls,
the dust-covered boxes of our minds,
the birthmarks of our desires.
It is too much to lay bare
on this linen-covered table
surrounded by polite company,
so we serve ourselves up in sample portions only
and wonder why it is never enough.
