The Feast
There is a feast — always.
Am I really allowed to pick?
Someone enters and places a full plate in front of me,
Another a snack plate,
Then enters a salad, a dessert.
I don’t want these.
Am I really allowed to pick?
I look over the many and see a chair.
Beyond the feast.
Am I really allowed to pick?
I want that chair
— away from the feast.
Maybe I can move?
My feet — oh, no!
They are “pulling at my ankles with
their stiff fingers.” *
Each voice is crying,
“Mend my life.” *
Am I really allowed to pick?
I don’t want any.
What if I don’t want any.
I don’t want any.
No more. Please.
No more.
The feast is the beast
I’ve battled alone.
I can’t do it. Help.
I CANNOT DO IT.
I WILL NOT DO IT.
The beast vanishes.
I sit in my chair.
I claim my seat.
*Reference to Mary Oliver’s poem, The Journey
