Articles & Essays   Book Reviews Creative Writing

Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

 

Volume 18 Number 1, April 2017

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A.J.Huffman

 

I Dream in Arsenic

 

Drips of time dissolve—

tainted memories lingering

on my parched tongue.  I choke

on the shadows I have been swallowing

for years.  They have become my fingers,

my lungs, and my skin.  I hear them

ticking necrotic, and pray I will rise

before they manage to ghost me for good.

 

 

Ammophiliac

 

I rise before dawn, rejecting sole

coverings, walk onto the tide-kissed expanse

uncovered by receding surf.  Toes

sink into the clotted grains, the soft

dampness, a morning’s welcome.  I walk

the beach, branding it with each step,

watch as the sun bakes it soft, feel it

graze feet, shins, knees

with a rising nudge of breeze.  By noon

it is a mock desert, I lay in sifting

dune, arms splayed, sand angel, offering

skin in prayer.  Sedentary sacrifice,

I allow it to cover me, claiming my palms,

my breast.  My eyes close to the abrasive

embrace of eroded pressure, residual

crumbs of earth consumed.

 

 

I Am Mathematical

 

equation, a story problem with myriad potential,

numerals to plug into.  I am solvable

with the appropriate amount of attention.

I am intentional

                          ly ambiguous, but designed to yield

predetermined response.