Feast | Kari A. Flickinger
(Why do you ask them)
You have just
sucked love, o love, eaten
the art of the one you loved
Taken between palatal arch and tongue
salted featherlight flesh.
(There’s something hard-wired)
We fine things had fine wings, we fine
breeding birds—tumbling molten sing
hers, we fine bleeding creatures—just, eaten
(Perhaps your hands are)
We are your love-embrace, tuned to
the tangible muscle in the stomach-fold.
Tangibly lull me, gull me, love—o heart
here is your platter of heart.
(I’m not that nice—nice is a)
Love—just, survived, o eaten
deft heart-blood, heart, blood, muscle, mud
molted. We find the guttural tendon
encased in blue breeze—how it stares
(Cut your own steak.)
up at us—the one we have known. The soft
touch of the slight shoulder. The cells
(Eat your own heart)
bore—tusked to life with insistent
thrust. Still try to instruct—we
(Stop begging your lovers)
carried up, lofty.
(to be kind to you.)
Tell me—one, who has
eaten your own
blood, do you tumble with
molten wings, as well?
[After Gudrun’s tale in The Volsunga Saga. References: MGMT, “When You Die” Little Dark Age (Columbia, 2017). ]
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Kari A. Flickinger was a 2019 nominee for Best of the Net, and the Rhysling Award. She is an alumna of UC Berkeley and the Community of Writers. Her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from Rhythm & Bones Press, Menacing Hedge, The Ekphrastic Review, and Mojave Heart Review, among others. When she is not writing, she can be found playing her Gibson Hummingbird, and singing to her unreasonably large Highlander cat, Bear.
Personal Site: kariflickinger.com