from Ripples this Reflection
My wrist flicks. Stone skips three
disappearing into black oblivion of water’s registry.
I make a mental note of its passing, its lack of need
for pretentious ceremony. I wait a moment longer to see
if wind or wing will rise to offer eulogy,
but the world has chosen this moment
to hold its breath. The eloquence of silence
stands as tombstone, resonating louder than lightning,
an audience rising in applause.
My Brain is Dead
and I am suffocating
on the smell of sympathy
lilies. White as ghosts,
they stand in defiance to my own
breath, as if the rest of me has suddenly become
a coffin carrying the corpses of thought
into a purgatory of mindless motion,
an afterlife of light bulbs burnt out.
Toes in the Wind
Baby girl waits for greyhounds to emerge,
feet swinging over railing as she holds on
to supportive hands holding her. She giggles
excitedly as the eight graceful gallopers are paraded
before the crowd, waves her arms in support
of her fast and furious friends. She knows
nothing of protests or controversy of animals
raised to race as sport. Her eight-month-old eyes
only see freedom found by four paws pacing four more,
running, streamline away from the sun.
A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming: Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, haiku and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
Post a Comment