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"Starlight" "Why" and "Sunday Cutlery" by Kerry Rawlinson


It is true that its glimmer is so faint that it disappears where the eye tries to fix upon it… yet… it gives an impression of brilliant beauty. —'A History of Astronomy’ —A. Pannekoek—


you have to squint

                              or gaze sideways 


to see the farthest star.

                              its light is peripheral


& quixotic—but if

                              you peer obliquely


you can spot it.

                              I never look at grace


full-on, either, but try

                              to be discreet, peeking


askance through slitted

                              eyes. with this technique


the spark & flicker partnership

                              of humour & decency


should have a half decent chance

                              of reaching me.


trivial as a zit on the face of a lunar eclipse;

distant as Neptune          on a night unlit & dark

as tar, unsightly as scars & crowsfeet

on the cheeks          of a hollywood starlet,


this word…


trifling as the smothered heart of a humming-

bird;           ridiculous as a turd on the Queen's

kingsize sheet, bleak as the brothers

Karamazov in their white          Siberian sleet, 


this word…


fragile as frost-brittle buds, foolish & tiresome

as lust, as oddly lost          as a glass eye from a

china doll in grubby silk, detached as the

Flying Dutchman          in an ocean of spilt milk, 


this word…


wasted as a piddle in the sea, grotesque

as the stain of puttana          in the Vatican; silly

as the riddle on the guillotine that its victim

will never read:           this irrelevant, insolent 





Sunday Cutlery


forks & tines &

juggled knives—


the flying cutlery

of exhausted couples


reflect the inner massacre

of our hacked-up lives.


sharpened all week,

we wield the tips to nick;


to prick juicy drips

of delectable gossip


for the neighbours to lick

from each other’s necks;


to fling at the spinning

sacrificial disks


of homey entropy

to which we’re hogtied


blindfolded, as if

they were gut-spinning


Wheels of Death.

but it’s sunday…


today, can’t we quit

the slicing & dicing


the crazed sawing back

& forth of routine? abandon


edges of animosity? on this

one day, let’s carve


ourselves free. let’s curl

into the quiet contours


of release, stow our ivory-

handled weapons snug


in their velvet vaults

& make a toast. after


sunday roast & spuds

have soaked up life’s bile


let’s spoon past midnight,

afloat in the gravy of love.

"Starlight" "Why" and "Sunday Cutlery" by Kerry Rawlinson

kerry rawlinson is a mental nomad & bloody-minded optimist who gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil. Winner of Princemere Poetry Prize 2024, honorably mentioned in Proverse Press and Fish Poetry prizes and placed in others, e.g. Bridport, Canterbury; Room; National Poetry Society and Palette, she has forthcoming or recent work: League of Canadian Poets; Pinhole; Touchstone Lit; Novus Lit; Passager; UCity Review; Drunk Monkeys; Wild Roof Journal; Suburban Review; Grain; Rochford St. Review; and more. kerry is still wandering barefoot through dislocation and belonging—and still drinks too much (tea). @kerryrawli

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