Silence at the Table

I pass the platter, smile soft,

nod as they share stories of pets

before grilling tips and charcuterie art.

I don’t say what hums beneath my ribs:

that you can’t truly love an animal

and still eat one.

Instead, I count the quiet things—

my dog curled up like a comma,

a warm pause in the sentence of my day.

She twitches in sleep,

paws running through a field I’ll never see,

nose nudging some invisible joy.

I wonder—do the others dream?

The ones in cages, in crates,

in steel and shadows.

Do they see sky in sleep?

Or only walls?

Do their dreams echo with bleats of fear,

or flicker with forgotten grass?

How can a soul imagine

what it has never known?

If you are born into metal

and die by blade,

what can your heart invent

when it finally drifts into rest?

Do they dream of mothers?

Of running?

Of softness?

Do they know, somehow,

that they were meant

for more

than this?

And still, I say nothing.

Because it's easier.

Because I’m polite.

Because telling the truth here

feels like cruelty

in a room full of people

chewing contradiction.