it's a dash your head on your dishes sort of scene,
the dinner turned a blood-red spit of brains on the ham
pink-grey stuff splitting in the disjoint of skulls,
the family smiling in the portrait, the heads
cracked like egg-shells, broken china &
heaps of a thanksgiving feast, a family-style
massacre with you at the centre. steak knives &
bread knives: the murder weapon? the dishes,
it's always been the dishes the spoon running
cow leaping over the moon & landing smack on
the dinner table and all of our heads fall off & roll
like cabbages to the vase in the centre, our reflections
bubbled and ballooned into headless grins.