Three Poems by A.J. Huffman

Hollows That Bleed

I draw a heart

across the page.

But it stays empty.

Nameless.

My love, it seems, is hollow.

Unfulfilled.

I try to force in letters

to make sense.

But they always come up:

DAMNED.

That’s me.

Past.

Present.

And future?

Probably.

Wipe the stage.

Try again.

This time I will go deeper.

Set this latest stain.

In blood.

Kamikaze

Shots fired over lines I never knew you set,

and me on a stool in their center.

I know this war.

I have lost it again and again.

If I breathe, if I move,

it is over.

I would prefer to just swallow

the shells.

Daily Mail

I am an addict, lying

naked in the gravel.  I am dying

for your words, for a word,

for a sign that I am

still in your thoughts

as I watch you lick

the stamp that will level me

faster than four tires.  I wait,

in a bag of unnecessity,

for the final page

to turn my breath

cold.

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