Monday, March 4, 2013


A gift,
he said.
And put you in my arms.
The warm brown of your fur
and smiling in the sun
as I swung you round
into the air.
And when I looked
into the soft globes of your eyes,
they were glasses
filled with all the mischief of life.
Like his.
And I loved you then.
For you were his.
You were him.
And you were mine.
So I named you after that man in that movie.
The one he wanted to name his first son.
A thought
of appreciation.
My useless gesture
wasted on the plaster and paint;
walls listen
but never comprehend.

First Sight:  History

She was perfect.
Auburn hair dancing in the sun
as she sat cross-legged in the grass
reading some anonymous dime-store novel.
She was not wearing shoes
or make-up
and was silent and stoic in her oblivion
to the mindless masses muddling around her.
She looked as if she had stepped off some mid-west postcard
in her sunflower skirt and ponytail.
She was so sweet
just looking at her made my teeth ache.
And when she smiled
the pale grey of her eyes personified innocence.
And since corruption was my new middle name
I knew I just had to meet her.

First Sight:  Herstory

I felt him watching me.
How could I not
when he and his six-foot-plus shadow
were obliterating my reading rays.
He was wearing blue jeans,
a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up,
and his best I’m-too-sexy-for-words smile.
He was smoking a camel non-filter,
posing in classic James Dean
for all the little girls that passed.
And he never even blinked
when I caught him watching me.
He was so typically arrogant it was funny.
I could not help but smile
when he came over to introduce himself.
And when he asked me to dinner
I almost laughed
at myself
for saying yes.

Echo's Curse

You took my voice in retribution.
I am stupid now,
able only to mirror the thoughts you feed me.
And for awhile it was enough.
Your fascination with the sheer brilliance
of your voice passing twice through my lips
balanced me in your favor.
But then you found the fantastic fountain
and its courting beauty
you imprisoned beneath the water.

I know the mute nymph you covet.
She is going to flee your touch.
Still I parrot your libidinous songs
from the depths of the darkness behind,
allowing you to go on this way.
Until I fade from frustration.
My flesh dims to dust and my bones bed with rocks,
releasing my voice, your voice,
wailing our disgrace
into the consumptive cavern below.

And it occurs to me,
as I look forth from the rippling depths of discovery,
that I might be you.
Talking to myself

A.J. Huffman