Feed Me
Start with that strawberry, the fat one,
plump drops of moisture on its skin. Then move
on to praise a poet, Rumi say, or sing a psalm
of David to Bethsheba. Next on the menu
a belly laugh so deep and pure it attaches
to my wit and holds me tight
as you do when you
feed me. No need for fancy linens
or callous-free hands. I’m also fine
with take-out, a furtive kiss
in the parking lot, promise or request.
Feed me the thoughts that make
you smile and I’ll be happy too.
On picnics even leftovers taste like
the smell of fresh-mown grass.
Feed me now – the food will feed
us both. When you’re too old, or
cranky, I’ll plant the garden and
feed you, grow grand-children
who make you laugh.
