The table sweats.
Meat breathes beneath linen.
Knives whisper to each other about hunger.

A man swallows a medal and smiles.
He bleeds in perfect grammar.
The chandelier hums an anthem for the dead and the dining.

Children kneel in buckets of milk.
Their hair smells of iron and prayer.
Someone’s laughter drips from the ceiling,
thick and sweet as rot.

A judge feeds a tongue into a typewriter.
It types out forgiveness.
The letters are teeth.

A girl’s face is served on a platter of ash.
Her eyes blink slowly,
like clocks refusing to stop.

The candles ooze fat.
It gathers in plates,
and everyone pretends it’s soup.

Outside, soldiers bury their shadows.
Inside, the mirrors applaud.
Someone’s hand keeps moving
long after it’s been told to stop.

When the bell rings,
there is no God.

Only cutlery.