This Poem was Submitted By: Molly Johnson On Date: 2002-02-21 19:06:54 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The Meal

Sometimes I try to write. Sometimes I just try to disguise  the bleeding from my stubbed fingers (a smear of words made to calcify  and crust like young continents).  Sometimes I give you the scab to pick at  and the itch to scratch.  Sometimes I blow deep into your ear until you go dizzy with the drama  (the needs of living echo true to you). Sometimes I’m mean, and you are too. Sometimes simple metaphors don’t suffice  and so we both suffer through the  devices and structures and strictures and forget that it’s language and it’s you  and it’s me and it’s the meal  (regardless of the cutlery).

Copyright © February 2002 Molly Johnson

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