At the Table
*For Palestine

I got ushered in, a wedding, to a table
and a placard that read, “collective humanity.”
And we the few were sat in that corner
table to suck marrow out of dry chicken bones.
In the main dining room it was chaos of war
a celebration actually. Limbs, human
and animal torn and tossed into the air for cheers.

We must understand them. We have to!
Full and engorged (not an easy word in a poem)
what else can they do with the excess food
blood and drinks when there is always more?
More of us? When their more is always
us waiting in their lines?