that lives in our backyard has an attitude
problem, it does not seem to understand
that I paid for my dogs to have the right to run,
to roam, to play in the fenced-in expanse
above which it has built its home. Every morning
it streaks for the tree or fence, barely escaping
tiny teeth that may or may not think this is all
just a game. Then it chitters down its tireless tirade
of disgust at them, rapidly pacing branch or beam.
I used to feel sorry for it, for its lack of understanding
of property rights, mortgage claims, eminent domain.
I used to feel sorry for it, until it dropped an acorn
on my head. I swear I heard it laugh.
My Brain Delivered
the right thought at the right moment.
Just dropped it right in the appropriated
slot, all sealed and stamped in pristine
white #10 envelope. It never waivered.
Honored soldier weathered elemental
slices of synthesized digital snow, rain,
and heat to land smack
dab in the gloom of my nightly
tirade. It came out on the other
side, anointed in valored grace at having
sated appointed need with non-regurgitated
words that flew on cohesive wing, to raise
ballad of hope that consciousness still held
breath, somewhere in the cavernous alcoves
behind the blue-dyed madness of my eyes.
A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
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