Poetry

Feeding the soul

In a small room,
a window to all I need,
my soul—yes, it has returned

—will be free
of policy and committee,
headlines and opinion.

I’ll cook away
at little children,
pulling recipes

down from the shelf,
adding in combinations
and portions,

tasting each child,
sucking its bones,
before throwing them

to the window, the discards
of an inner life
I’ll feed to overflowing.

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