You told me then
that in your dream
my belly was a dark cave
made of niches and crevices
with walls overcrowded with
cages of bent wires
and inside those, cold and still
the corpses of dead roosters

We sit at the same table
but not together
sharing a meal as though
it was bequeathed by a dead relative
present from the corner of the eye
uttering short words
that circle us like vultures
playing chess
not willing to spare the pieces

I stuff my plate with hunger
chew on my resent
swallow down the truth
and have the leftover silence for dessert
all go down the hatch
melding into me
fermenting, swelling
making my stomach bloat
and my insides turmoil
and my guts rumble
and from my pitch black abyss rises
a foreboding omen
a wake up call