Communal Table

My store-bought cake sat there, a bright fraud,

next to a seven-layer dip that truly awed.

I felt my teeth grit, my smile too wide,

this awkward feeling I couldn't quite hide.

Then the hush, a collective intake of breath,

as the host, smiling, announced 'til death

do us part, or 'til dinner, rather, is served.'

I swallowed a sigh, a nerve unnerved.

My eyes found the potato salad,

warm and sad, a spoon stuck in its heart.

The surface, a skin, had started to harden,

a quiet testament, tearing me apart

from the easy laughter, the casual grace.

I just wanted to find an empty space.