You write your pain
out the way a missile finds
its target and just lets go.
You push that button
labeled "publish" and
you're done, except you're not.
You check back in, needing to see
who shows up for your main course
how your latest meal
of lacerating words is consumed
whether it's being eaten whole
brittle bones sinew hide and all
leaving you little satisfied
or spit back at you
with tongues as acid as your own.
I want to tell you I don't hunger
for what you're serving up
any more. I want you to leave
your untested recipes in the drawer
that holds your mixes of blames and failures
and one or two lost loves. I want you
to scrape what you've been feeding us
into the disposal once and for all
start cooking again like a pro
with the soft grip of our hands
on your shoulders used to heaving
then wonder at the next crowd
you draw around your table
without a protest of what's so wrong
with you. Go after the sweetest fruits
of the spirit you can collect and eat raw
warm or ice cold doesn't matter.
Make up that new dish the one called
I am I am I am and am loved
and ever after
hunger only for the gentle
you are you are you are and are loved.
© 2010 Maureen E. Doallas. All Rights Reserved.
This poem might work for tomorrow's Blog Carnival, or not. I'm letting it go now, though, as I have another poem that I wrote yesterday that I plan to submit after the link widget is available.