Tonight's Poet Corner: The Zealot's Banquet

The Zealot's Banquet
by Belinda Roddie

Let this be a lesson to me
as I sit across the table from you:
you spoon words into my mouth as cold
as the gazpacho served to me in an ivory
bowl. I choke on the language, its foreign
tang stinging my tongue. This is your
speech infiltrating my taste buds, not mine.

Look at you, so serene as you dust the crumbs
of your victory onto the napkin in your lap. I want
to take my fork and gouge your goddamn eyes
out - watch the pain course, red as wine, from
your whiskey-addled mind. You can't hide
your insecurities under marinara and risotto. No salt
or pepper will season a bland persona. You think

your undercooked diatribes impress me, that your
passion on platters speak to me on a spiritual
level. They fucking don't. I am left struggling
to separate my opinions from the ones you forced
upon me, cutting them into pieces with a steak
knife, feeding them to me as you would a baby,
ignoring the gagging throughout the meal.