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.

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