The Idolatry of Feelings
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.