“Behold, the nations count as a drop of the bucket, as dust on the scales;
the coastlands weigh no more than powder.”
– Isaia 40:15 –
Toast of Nations: Served by Mourning
Something appetizes, seemingly small;
Henceforth a banquet, sub rosa forces;
Greaters prevail, lessers gain gall;
The moral feast to exceed its courses.
Caviar, Caspian, black oily sea;
Bouillon gold, a bitter olive salad;
Diplomacy’s many, forks only three;
Palates absolved with sherbet pallid.
The grand entreé: succulent, whole rare flesh:
Sauce made from drippings gives body to body;
Side-dish vegetables are baby fresh;
Successive vintages – time’s sole toddy.
Then the toast: to peace, the future, now, past;
Table cleared: a casket with roses;
Turkish coffee, English tea, brandy last;
More conversation in wake of poses;
A spectre, a sudden chill finds its way,
Pours mourning down the table then passes;
Dessert: banana republic flambé;
Candle flames shudder, portent fills glasses.
Abstainments (not from more), some take stands;
The room lurid, the issues icy hot;
Finger bowls served for red sweaty hands;
The room’s essence deep black, the mood not.
– Mary Jo Magar –