Tuesday, June 11, 2019

A.J. Huffman - Three Poems


after Forms, Hatchets  by Magyari, John the Younger

One stroke
      obliterates two things
creates a third.

Can we call it harmony?

We shade it gold, give it value
cherish it,
label it
 but hone its edges
to cut its own throat,




Can that equation ever equal anything
as soft as pink?

Sky and birds fly,
on houses built of sand.  Temporary tragedies.

Axes obliterate forests
permanent shelter for humans that offer
occasional cages
for wayward wings.
This we call reprieve.


Sweeter than the Desert’s First Rainfall

The snake slithered into her.  I assumed
I would sleep until the next morning—
didn’t work out that way.  It was not yet warm
outside, but ridiculously hot inside.
Perhaps the effect was from the stress of a new place.
For the first time, unbreathing skin revolted.  
In the feverish concentration, human ovens transform
into something bulged, and accused
me with their stares:  Someone burns the world.

It was the same nightmare [about the skeleton shroud].


Stuck Stuttering [In Silence]

The peacock feathers on my finger
nails look
    all glitter-glowy.  Moons
alighted, they spark.  The pen
spears the page.  Are they the prophesied third
eyes of legend?  Or the collective channel
through which the muse now chants?  My wonder
leads to worry.  Twitching,
I pick at their petals.  Peeling, they pit,
split, crack.  They are/I am ruined
by the minutia of such
a misguided thought.

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