All that’s bitter is gold

We’re burning a new plate of bread

for your bitter taste buds

to enjoy,

but wait,

make sure

you follow

our strange customs–

don’t eat

until everyone can chew at the exact same time,

and while your mouth

is mashing food

your mouth must also

talk

or else

the silence

will kill us–

tell us all about you,

where you came from,

where you’re going,

who you like

and who you don’t

and if you don’t like

the food

just swallow it

and don’t let it

poison your polite tongue,

for in our home

no one says the word “no”

without some gratitude to bundle it up,

and if you must leave

you must first spend

a quarter of the afternoon

standing in your coat

chatting about the rain

from yesterday

and how you slept

last week

and what you did in school

a decade ago

like anybody cares–

sorry,

sorry

that’s rude

to say I don’t care,

I meant

“I know, right!”

“Honestly, same!”

“I relate so hard!”

“can’t wait to do this again!”

let me just go

crash on my bedroom floor

now

and wonder how non-autistic people

make any sense

since I don’t get ’em,

I need a pamphlet

to explain why this is fun

and it’s not you as you

that bothers me,

I appreciate the gift of your presence,

but your wrapping

is baffling

and I wanna know what’s waiting inside

but everyone here’s comparing colors

and crinkles

and bows

like those

matter,

like those

mean anything once the party’s over–

maybe I should just

shapeshift

into a crow

who collects shiny things for fun

then I could

weave your school facts

and weather quips

into a nest

for myself

to keep myself warm

this winter

instead of waiting for the chance

to open presents

with something lasting inside.