Class Room

The facilitator asks us, "What are you 

nourishing yourselves with? What's in your heart's kitchen?" 

I quickly scribble Faith. 

Next, Hope. At some point Whimsy. My last word? 

Humor.  This kitchen feels good. 

I like the way it smells. 

"Now," the poet continues, "What

do you hide? What is in your closet?"

At once, I know: ubiquitous and sad

fast food wrappers, wasted money piled

floor to ceiling.  Fat, sugar, salt. I feel the goo of 

my body then. Something slick and thick; all meat, blood, bone, 

perishing. I recoil.

"What's your favorite musical?" 

That's how we started. I said, "Dracula.

I saw it in town recently. I found it 

spectacular." There was a groan, then, from a man 

once a father, a husband, a child. I imagine the groan 

is of longing, and want to call out "Sir, do not lust 

over my repressed appetite. You should see my closet."