Black Tie Gala Faire

The red raspberry jam was clotting like a scab.

Through seams of Philo dough, the blood was dried,

A deep-dark red like when your side was stabbed,

Unseen inside the bodies, Brie stood by

To salt the sweetness of the seeping scar.

The texture of the flaky crust was not

As tenderness of skin. In fact, quite far

From that; one might have told the chef he thought

It far too thick. But then the skin might burst

When bit by Gala guests who’ve gathered here;

And no one here would see their bests made worst,

No, not one here would hear of hopes and fears —

Not here. No, here we won’t have hearts on sleeves.

But me, I bit that body and believed.