Brian’sPoems

The Fire for My Feast

I turn the sheet of notebook paper.
The pages are piling up,
slowly but steadily.
A new blank page awaits.
It’s like unwrapping a fish
or some other piece of meat.
There’s this hunk of flesh
to be cleaned and prepared,
then seasoned and cooked.

Eating every bit is most important,
and not wasting those sacrificial lives
who’ve added their weight to my bones.

I take this practice seriously.
Still I keep condiments close at hand.
I can often use a pinch of salt,
or a spoonful of sugar.

Every poem is a step down
from my perch above the mystery.
As the sensuous words ignite my being,
I become the fire for my feast.