Fête by Andrew Nance

I thought friends friendly, & so starved. 
I thought friends fiend-like, & so carved

an altar. I came for the communion, not 
the conversation; caught fire, blackened 

the banister. I had a hell of a time saving 
face; facing Mitanni, my president. 

Son after son rode the waves; the sight 
was hard to believe, to insinuate. Duped, 

I was content to watch women carouse:
each carrousel passing in place, pleating 

into an envelope of eve. They took 
my card, catalogued my number. As I was 

pulling, not plucking, my eyelashes, one 
after another, they said, come on, said

we’re ready for feeding; together they 
pried at my parts, packed me up, a point, 

into the little drawers of a chiffonier. 
Parried from the door by a large man 

in a pearl necklace, my teeth began 
to chatter. There was little left: I starved 

still. I chose carousal over caving; cabal 
over waking. I came to a catastrophe.