poetry critical

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For him it’s a given that
I’ll write and succeed
so he blows me off.
I cook,
make wine, cheese,
sculpt in paper, in clay, in cake
I paint, I draw,
all excellent achievements
his idea of me allows no flaw
to him I am perfection
I am banked.
expects me to compound on my own.
I am no treasure
just a colander of steel
and the clear juice
drains into the cup
while the meat
stays behind.
and I want him to taste
the meat.


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