By A.J. Huffman
from Bones this Resignation
Recognition: their brush’s gentle motion,
that which would tickle if nerves had not
dissolved myriad millennia ago. Hearing:
soft echo of brow sweat beating against
what is left of me.
Harvesting has begun. My piecemeal resting
replaced with zombiesque half-life. They
will raise me, puzzle for their pondering,
re-construct me as teaching aid, exhibitional
wonder. Forced back together, displayed
in a nakedness so complete, their living
minds could never begin
The Road to Butterfly Road
shivers in the morning wind. Layered
in exquisite colors of post-cocoonal flight,
wanders into random nets, gets pinned
behind twin panes of framed glass.
Destination: wall corpse. It ends
under stereotypical flag-term: beautiful
The concrete emanates an almost-
innocence in the snow. Though rapidly
graying from exhaust, it glistens with promise
of rejuvenation, a new beginning with every
clinging flake. This slick coat is not considered
fashionable, quickly shoveled, loaded into trucks,
taken to anonymous gravesites
somewhere on the other side of the skyscrapers.
I imagine the melting piles, looking back
at their fallen home. Do they miss the metal
shadows, mourn the misunderstanding of cold?