Caroline Davidson Are You Sure You Want to Feed Me? You like to feed my form all meals of salt, crème, charqui, serve to voyeur. I bid the okay, I want bones slathered in caramel, carnal excess, though I touch some inherited guilt: Grandma only ate depression- era turnip sandwiches on a Missouri farm, and here I am soaking as you truffle up my holes with stand-in cock for lack. I shout oh god to hollowed trunks of bedframe branch until termites shield their mouths, emit tiny peristaltic gulps. Big boar with apple becomes my familiar: indecent jaw laid on pewter tray, a vulgar plenty; rhythmic slurps of leg meat cut with mush. But this is no Shakespeare feast. Outside the central Ohio casino some deer carcass hangs near the edge of a shale cave and the shale cave speaks German         and you don’t speak, only fatten me monster by gullet-born monster.