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New Poetry Project: "Feast"

All the poems will be about you,
so stop asking.
But I won’t write them here.
I’ll take to the sky, other continents,
count the blessings of learning
to pack lightly, to make room.
John Irving said sorrow floats,
but it also flies and I’ve tucked it
between clean socks and underwear,
shaken it out in unfamiliar rooms.
I’m going to write about you
and all the others who insinuated 
themselves into my life and thought
they could get away scot-free.
I’m going to name names,
take back my own, be self-indulgent.
Those New England confessionals
will have nothing on me.
I will come home,
my bags bulging from the purge,
and I will read it to everyone.
This will be a slaughter,
followed by a field dressing,
but there will be no trip to the butcher,
your head won’t become a trophy.
I’m going to bring you home,
sit in the dark and eat you raw
all over again.


This poem is the third of four new works to appear at Modern Confessional and across social media as part of the New Poetry Project 2.0 ©C…

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