A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com. Entombed after Abandoned Dwellings by artist Vladamir Kush Memories of desiccated corpses, dehydrated bodies, shriveled and stolen, some by time, some by inquisitive hand, haunt the now hollowed walls of this shell, this once sanctified reliquary. Honored temple for the dead, embedded in the sand, remains a stoic symbol of fleeting power. Coveted by lesser beings that only pass outside its shadow, touch its cold surface, its somber grace stands unnoticed. Ruined walls echo a skeletal weakness, an almost rushing need to be filled that will go unanswered even as eternity continues to consume its floors. What Time Is It when silence learns to speak in unshadowed corners of rooms that have never seen clocks? It is the backward dance of bullets that fall below the radar of Broadway and the nonsensical triviality designed to make words harmonic. It is the harsher echo of true meaning bellowing above the oral subterfuge of what is considered acceptable. It is a crack, intentionally stepped on, the hesitational horror hanging a mirror on a broken nail, the breath held too long, released too loudly out of fear of something that was never really there. Fish Watch Me from shallow tide pools as I walk early morning sands. These half-shadowed pre-dawn pools ripple as I pass, and I wonder if their fins feel the depth of my desire to escape. Blank eyes refuse to blink in acquiescence to such thoughts. I move forward but do not look back. I am sure if my pace hastened toward the water they would follow me into welcome oblivion. He Carried Her like a mirror, all folded and secured in his pocket. In his hand, she sparkled temporarily, forgetting the dangers of following, of going along for an undetermined ride. Too late, she landed in a pile of yesterday’s dirt, permanently closed, and more than slightly cracked.
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