Lovers at receptions are drunk.
Sacrifice has been made,
orgy commenced.
When I see the magician raise his hand
in benediction, fear begins.
Tables with white cloths,
brides waiting for the slop of wine.
Illusions grow in drinking.
The couple is drunker than most.
They have the most pain to kill.
Old eyes are pleased;
what they did is condoned.
Crazy young eyes can't see
through the spell of the priest.
The room is hot.
Everybody can be a fool
once in their life; it's not irrevocable.
But, something feeds off those tables.
published in Wind Row II, winter, 1993.
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