At the Dinner Table (Eat Shit!)

Poetry

Brionna McDonald

Don’t open the can of worms. Why don't you … let it fester?

Just a little more.

Festering that is, please don’t implore.

Something is buried under the floorboards; it stinks, but you’re just going to ignore it.

Can you take that?

Turnstile churning grieving supper,

of oodles and oodles of noodles.

Cryptic tripe perhaps? But don’t you dare complain about it.

Shove in, shut up.

Lamb broken, little is spoken.

Clavicle, spine, bones,

pizza slice dipped in dirt.

Bird food. Worm food.

Your food.

Breakfast is pagan eggs, with a side of

“The light is bright,” and “Isn’t that bird pretty?”

Distraction lunch, the menu is:

Eat your food, don’t look up.

Shut up, shove in.

Oodles and oodles and oodles slither in.