Saturday, October 18, 2014

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 




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