Feed the Soul

A poem about the evil inclination

Feed the Soul



This primeval swelling
bellowing bulging stomach
aches for cream filled pies--
and feasts
though sated bowels, twisting,
turn in turmoil
thinking mouthful morsels.

I wonder,
as delicious drippings
cling to color my stubbled
unshaved, unclean
slovenly--
dim eyed streams
of soulful
lessness,

How tables
of fruit filled centers
unsound though
my mind supposes
are reasons for being
(just as being is growing)
by the mouthful
colorless, pallid,
fat
for lack of fullness.

Satisfy, by G-d, this appetite
by G-d
on bread alone.

I will gorge myself on cows
and delicate strawberries.
on varied fats
from slaughtered blood-let beasts
on thick loaves
and on intoxicating wine.