feed me

whatever fables you have on hand: leviticus leaves/ grimm tails/ fish
stories/ five loaves three minnows/ disney dough/ koranges/ scrips
& scraps of treaties. lawyerly lingo/ livers of sozzled lovers/
tibias of dropped toddlers. fill me with whatever
will partially kill me. still my heartspeed.
bury war wonton down my throat.
choke my cherry. stuff my
rolls. nosh on lore &
echo pie:


will try
to eat; to digest gristle
the earth spits up in ghostly pale bidets.
deceit splits our heads like scalpings. blazing-
eyed poets rip out their own tongues. myths explode
into baby bones. lies waft like landfill stink/ lick at us under-
foot like plague rats/ dangle like teen-bait. where to hang blame?
generations of soft, round mouths force fed corpse flesh they’re unable to
digest, fold inside-out; & ice shelves undress themselves like tired old fables.





kerry rawlinson is a mental nomad. She left Zambia decades ago to explore and landed in Canada. Fast forward: she’s still barefoot, tiptoeing through life’s conundrums. She has received awards from Glittery Literary, Edinburgh International, and was a finalist for contests sponsored by Room, Princemere, and Palette. Recent work appears in Prism Review, Epoch, Prairie Fire, and Carousel, among other publications. When not challenging established norms, she kayaks with her husband and drinks too much (tea).

Latest Issue

Issue 90

More In This Issue