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    The Idolatry of Feelings  

     

    by Judith Skillman

     

     

    Look here, I am sad.

    Comfort me, the littlest one said.

     

    And as for me, I’m angry.

    Enraged. I see red. Like a bull

    I’ll fly at the cape you sport

    and use my horn to impale you.

     

    Come now, the father said,

    you must not cry,

    as the baby whimpered,

    its mouth-flesh just beginning

    to contort like putty.

     

    Remember yourself, you must not yell,

    the mother said, as the hormone-infused

    gangly one stood in the kitchen

    holding Portnoy’s bloody steak,

    the one he used to masturbate with

    in the bathroom.

     

    Soon enough girl and boy grew up.

    Left to resuscitate not only

    their parents but the earth itself.

    This Hansel with his breadcrumbs, 

    this Gretel with a stick for an arm.

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