The Feast of Power

Walls breathe insistent hunger, red as the inside of a split pomegranate, richer still where the tallow has melted, slick as the fat from a burnt offering. Scarpia does not eat. He savors—sounds of gristle snapping in the next room— —low, wet gasps— body writhing beneath unseen hands, a melody of muscle breaking. Tosca stands, spine locked, as he drinks from a goblet brimming with the color of a mouth left too long in the sun. He watches her throat move, slow, careful, like a deer scenting iron in the air. A scream glissandos through the walls. Scarpia wipes his lips. His fingers, thick as butcher’s twine, gesture toward the door— an invitation, a demand— a sermon delivered without breath. Tosca does not kneel. Not yet. But the feast has begun, and the host holds the fermata. (note: this poem was inspired by a scene from the opera Tosca by Giacomo Puccini)