“Put meat on the bones”
is what my mentor said.  

I cried inside no way, that’s fodder
I do not want to, nor cannot, begin to feed.  

Easy for you, your poems are surreal,
fantastical, full of metaphors that afford
space between heart and ache.  

My meat is fetid, yet to decompose,
still at the bottom of the bin
so odiferous it chokes when I lift the lid.  

Your handiworks are full of form,
mythology and talent, too,
things I hope to learn from you.  

Once from different worlds
now we are joined by passion
for words and for poems that singe
into ears what we massage them to hear.  

Lessons learned while looking for meat;
passions at rest are like birds in hand,
passions at play an eagle released
into the wind, swooped to soar.  

I  struggle to loose secrets thick
as a two inch cuts of beef,
I refuse to eat or serve,
but always I hear the words
that taught me to write
with freedom like first flight,

“Put meat on the bones, Catherine,
put meat on the bones”