by MYLES KAPLAN
Looking up, the splendid clamor of
silver utensils on gilded plates,
their frantic clatter subsiding to the scent of
tender pheasants, wine, bread.
They gorge themselves on such eccentricities,
yet their plump lips stay well and agile to pay service
to so-called knights, dukes, counts–
See them all:
Lined up from the head of the table to the foot
(in order of importance, of course).
Handshakes before, the same amiable hands
make quick work of the birds,
with all the grace and sensuality of a sacrifice.
Grease dripping down their chins,
onto their hands,
knives wet with moist flesh,
hands tired from cutting,
throats dry from talking and never enough wine.
Their lips smack, tearing at the skin;
it speaks more than any manufactured words could.
They continue until they bore of it,
the glamor of the evening gone.
The man at the end rises, smiles
as if to say, “Let’s make a war.”
They leave their plates, dirty and filthy,
lying in a careless array.
Writer | Myles Kaplan ‘28 | mkaplan28@amherst.edu
Editor | Sarria Joe ‘27 | sjoe27@amherst.edu