Ann Privateer, Pondering
The Potluck
Matthew J. Andrews
I am dead, and we are celebrating
with a potluck before I move on
to whatever awaits me. I sit at the head
of a long banquet table, the rest
of it a checkerboard of empty chairs
separated by prior versions of me:
one acne-ridden and lanky, his hands
deep down in his pants; another toned
and manicured, whistling a tune;
others so far away they start to blur.
I think of making a toast, but I know my audience
and the deep hunger that burns in each of them,
so I simply announce that it’s time to eat.
I sit and ask the last version of myself,
flabby and disheveled, to pass me a dish.
I’m sorry, he says to me, each of us
only brought food for ourselves
Matthew J. Andrews
I am dead, and we are celebrating
with a potluck before I move on
to whatever awaits me. I sit at the head
of a long banquet table, the rest
of it a checkerboard of empty chairs
separated by prior versions of me:
one acne-ridden and lanky, his hands
deep down in his pants; another toned
and manicured, whistling a tune;
others so far away they start to blur.
I think of making a toast, but I know my audience
and the deep hunger that burns in each of them,
so I simply announce that it’s time to eat.
I sit and ask the last version of myself,
flabby and disheveled, to pass me a dish.
I’m sorry, he says to me, each of us
only brought food for ourselves