Hungry

I sit at your table, hungry
For anything, really; it’s been a slog
Through wasteland of death and destruction.

“Do you want to eat?” you ask.
“Yes! I’m so hungry,” I cry,
And you smile, as if this
Is what you’ve been waiting for.

You pile plate after plate onto the table—
   tender roast beef and crusty fresh bread
   macaroni and cheese (the way my mom makes it)
   orange-glazed ham and ensalata caprese
   salmon sushi and oden and gyoza
   pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert
All these my favorites; how did you know?

Then I look up, and I see them—
Why are they here? My enemies—I drop my fork
And pick up my knife—but they stay where they are.

They stare at the food piled up
On the table, a greedy look
In their eyes, but they do not eat.

I look up at you. “Why are they here?
Why don’t they eat?” I ask.

You smile sadly and turn.
“Come to the feast, friends. You are hungry—
Come and eat!” but they sneer.
“We are not hungry; we are fine. We do not need
What you offer”—as loud growls and gurgles
Denounce them as liars.

“They too
Have been welcomed, but they will not accept,
So they watch, perhaps till they starve.”

A pang of compassion. I turn
With grace on my lips, and a plate in my hands—
But your hand on my shoulder—“It’s enough,” you say,
“You can’t make them come; you must show them
My goodness. It is mine to give and theirs to accept.”