Death Invites Herself To Dinner

Quietly interrogating you

Death came for you in the evening

you told her, nice try, you’re not ready yet —

go bother the neighbors

she didn’t take the hint

she had a drink in her hand and was looking festive

you were in no mood for small talk

you curled a noodle around your fork, stabbing a mushroom in the process

there was little light and no music

just the rising concert of evening cicadas

as you chewed slowly, tasting hints of basil and black pepper

you sized up your cool visitor in her dark purple dress

did you expect a goddamn reaper with a sickle? she seemed to ask

as you shifted uncomfortably in your chair

do I look like I’m ready to depart? you countered with your eyes

she sipped her wine, staring at you — was she waiting for you to say something?

don’t you have killing fields and hospitals to visit? besides, they need me in the office tomorrow as they are short two sick staff you thought of telling her, defensively adding, plus I’ve got poems to write, as I just got a notification telling me “my audience is growing”

but instead you finished your pasta in silence as the evening finished its descent

Death tossed off the rest of her wine and stood up, saying

remember this meeting — I will come back when you are ready

and she left you to yourself as you wondered what you should be feeling, or at the very least, doing with the rest of your strange and short life

© Carlo Zeno 2023

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Thanks for reading, and thank you to Claire Kelly for considering this poem for her pub. For more dinner table fantasy, check out these two: