Alone at her table of discontents
reading the men through fine ground glasses
empty and overflown with such bitter tastes
course and remove, recours and redress
the banquet continues, she is starving
amidst places set for feasting, white linen,
fine lace, silver anniversaryware,
a hundred diamond teardrops
from every chandelier.
Laden though she is with coin of the realm
she can render nothing not her own so,
bankrupt and bereft, sighing at the maitre
‘d who,
snarling, brings another headless platter
heaped with able-bodied sea creatures,
sweetmeats and figs of virtuous proportion,
voluptuous fruits in ambrosial sauces,
succulent aphrodesia all,
she wastes, too indifferent to rise.
She is waiting through this last supper
for the kiss to end it all—any smiling Judas
might receive warm welcome
but the seat opposite remains empty
in a nearby room
another sighs
amelia
enduring famine