Meredith by Kenzie Allen

 

guest-edited by Danielle Evans



We love best the dogs who walk
upright, those sleepless explorers

who purchase daguerreotype hair jewelry
on eBay every night with no lights on, my stepmother,

the psychologist, who teaches rats to manifest
their desires as peanut butter in a chute

after pressing a lever. We've run out 
of all the strange materials in the world and are left

with only packing foam and old nests,
and we swallow them all, to line the stomach,

to prevent injury. Sometimes we even beg.
I want to trigger your every reward. Rock-splayed

lizard of your bone-dry, longhorn of your dire
cornucopia. I want you to bring your rope to me,

and hang me by my neck, like bad foxes
nailed twelve to a fence.




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Contributor Notes

Kenzie Allen is a Zell Postgraduate Fellow at the University of Michigan’s Helen Zell Writers’ Program, and is a descendant of the Oneida Tribe of Indians of Wisconsin. Her poetry and non-fiction can be found in Sonora Review, The Iowa Review, Day One, Word Riot, Apogee, Drunken BoatMatter: A Journal of Political Poetry and Commentary, and elsewhere, and she is managing editor of the Anthropoid collective. She lives with her mother on the Oneida Reservation in Green Bay, and in Ann Arbor.