The Supper

‘I suppose I’m hungry’ I whispered at last.
The birds looked at me with anger as I
stood up inside our empty room.

My skull became black,
my hair whiter and whiter,
my wings hit the ceiling light and
woke you up.

We chewed the supper with very small bites,
with precision, turned the pages
of our bedtime book,
probably had wine at the end of the ceremony.

Nobody laughed,
nobody knocked,
the neighbours kept the party going.
The frosted walls watched us asleep
on the burnt carpet.

20140405-191913.jpg
Installation: Rita Fenning
Photography: John Stadnicki

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