Poetry: A.J. Huffman

Inside a Tarnished Teapot

In a whispered wish
I call him to me.
Then kiss my palms,
praying he will never answer.
And in the welcome arms
of the darkness that follows
I realize
that this desire to feed
an impossible scenario
can only be the initial breath
of a dying dream.
Or the final stitch
in a formal dementia
passed through the hands
of a bitter god.

Deoptifractalization

You pick the glass spears from your eyes.
Restoring my vision.
And offer them on upturned palms.

In the right:
half of me that is me
is reflected
in the left:
half of me that is you.

I clap your hands.
Twice.
And through the din
I can see death’s clear outline.
Again.

A Porcelain Shadow

One pillar is not stone.
But something colder
than the length
of coral silk
gathered in dust and stars.
To resemble the net
that finally captured his breath.
And the angel
this forest
called queen.