In the Vomitorium

 

This is a bit dark, a kind of a warning.

In this poem, I imagine an ancient Roman vomitorium, where people eat and drink until their bodies can hold no more.  This stereotype of the decadence of the late Roman empire, right before the Fall, was instilled in us early on, as an example not to follow.

And yet here we are.

Someone asked me what caused me to think along these lines.  For me, the vomitorium calls to mind the fact that we Americans, in our material prosperity, tend toward obesity and other dietary indulgences.  This makes us an especially easy target for this virus.  And over the many months of COVID, we have paid a hefty price.

But the course of the pandemic has also revealed great inequities in our culture and in the world at large.  Some groups suffer more than others, whether it be attributable to race, wealth, or geographic location.

We in the US stand on the precipice of safety (as long as we do not lose our footing!)  A fully-vaccinated population is within our grasp. Other nations, such as many in South America and Africa, are facing going through this oncoming and potentially greatest wave of the virus, without any vaccines, to speak of.

Understandably, our mentality is to save our own first.  But let us hope that we do not forget those on the other side of the world, who will need our help.  Helping them is in our own self-interest as well.  The pandemic is not defeated, until it is under control everywhere.

I also think of Marie Antionette and the phrase “Let them eat cake!” so often attributed to her.  We all know what resulted from such a self-centered attitude: the poor girl was soon parted from her head.

We in the US hold a coveted position in this world, one of prestige and authority and power and comfort.  In the past few years, our international reputation has already suffered greatly .

Let us not forget to treat others well, and share what we can afford to share.  Otherwise, those who are denied such largesse may be tempted, to deprive us of all we hold dear.

 

Here, in the Vomitorium,

Reclining back,

With feet propped up,

Being fed grapes by slaves,

 

Do we hear the Goths

Beating down our gates?

Do we hear their

Howling war cry?

 

Do we note the streets

Running rife with plague,

With the sores

Of swollen rages?

 

Here, in the vomitorium,

Where the feast, replete

With treats, transports us

Well beyond satisfaction,

 

Can we know the Need

Beating down our gates?

Can we recognize

Its function?

 

Can we be bothered

To fight the hordes,

When they finally breach

The boudoir?

 

As we watch the dance

Of a thousand veils,

And it titillates

And thrills us,

 

What is the cost

Of our Indigestion,

Shuddering pounds

Compounding?

 

As we shift direction,

Allowing another

Elbow to carry

Our marbled flab,

 

Do we pause to think,

To consider,

How we weigh

On this weary perch,

 

As we gaze at our

Senatorial, moral,

Toga-bellied

navel?

 

But the breeze is fresh

And the days are long,

To pursue the course

Of Pleasure.

 

And who can touch us?

Who would dare?

With our wisdom, wealth

And bloodlines?

 

We are left

To the mercy of Destiny.

We are left

To our own devices,

 

With crumbs on our tummies,

Disgusting the Hungry,

Succumbing to Vice,

Till they come for us.

 

Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew

 

For an essay on caring what happens to other nations, read Who Only England Knew.

For a poem describing the darkness of a hurricane’s approach, read Too Dark.