Thursday, January 16, 2014

Fire Works

I stand alone in my forested yard.  Independence
Day, our favorite holiday, spent
walking in the midnight gardens, moonlight and sparks
falling around us.  Dodging
cars and questions, uncontrived
closeness was neither of our comfort.  Zone
out.  12 months

   later finds you broke[n] and me
too bitter to even communicate through any normal
means.  I pulled the dehydrated
flower from my wall, the last
relic of you. I matched it
in the wind.  It spit
                                and sputtered like current
distant festivities.  Detached,
the flares formed a life
                                      of their own.  Acrid
tendrils rose through a different night. 
In ancient rite of simulated sounding?  Somehow it seems
appropriate now.  A failing
smoked signal
ing a faltered good-bye.

Because November

reminds me of your arms,
wrapped in mine, a strange pretzel
of flesh and blanket, searching
for shared warmth before the fire.
The way the embers softened
the lines around your eyes, never
quite relaxed.  Our lips mirroring smiles.
Comforted as we waited for winter
to melt.

Of Hurricanes and Hunger

Silence is your request
for space.  And I am supposed
to understand the bipolar indifference
that bobbles through your [over] active mind.
I tally blind.
Trying to trace any shadow
of a pattern across my skin.  They are
so erratic they read like blackened scars.
I get bored in the interim
of your labored breathing.  Start connecting
the dots with knives.  Holding
the images that surface together
with pins that have nothing to do with safety.
I stare into an empty mirror
and pray for reflection.  But I am
no one’s queen (wicked or otherwise)
and receive no answer.  I respond
as expected.  Numbly.  And on command.
I am your dark
dream.  Your backlit frankenbaby.  Wait
for the lightening.  I crack
[to life?] at midnight.

A Letter from Juliet

Dear Romeo, I tried,
I really did, to drink the Kool-Aid,
that fairytale potion that would bind me
to you for eternity, but I finally realized
it was poison, powerful, but deadly. I am
sorry, but the price of that kiss, your kiss,
is just a little too high.

A.J. Huffman

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