Santa’s On Xanax
Sitting — toe deep — in the white-beach pseudo-snow, the tides
tying time into knots of irrelevancies . . . Is it January or June?
And where the hell is my phone?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SILENCE~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Head twitch. Hand jerk.] No, wait! I heard . . . something.
Was it a seagull or just another torturous shrapnel from Salvation’s
bell? [Blink, blink. Blank] Where am I? Block it out. Chant
backwards: No clock. No calendar. No worries
about gaining back those 50 pounds to fit into “The Suit.”
Count the shells.
*****Calm.*****
Carve a reindeer print in the sand. [Laugh out loud.] That’s hysterical!!
(They are soooo neurotic about getting sand in their tow.) “Rooftops
to the rescue!” [Clap-hand mouth = shut. Squirrel swivel head = look.
Don’t] Tell me how many days till I’m back in Hell. [Shake shake shake
the beautiful Rx bottle. Music to my ears.] Whew! Not just yet.
Back to basics: oil or block?
It’s time, damn it, to count those little white four-scored pills . . .
Too many to see. Too few to breathe.
“Screw it!” Just swallow and wait [for]
another dose to pull [me?] through
another day.
You Have the Right
they said, to stand your ground,
to defend yourself on your own
property. So she fired one warning
shot over her abusive husband’s head,
hoping to save herself and her children
from yet another beating.
You have the right, the arresting officer said,
to remain silent, as he handcuffed her,
put her in the back of his squad car.
They charged her with attempted murder,
sentenced her to 20 years. This is Florida,
they laughed. You would have gone free
if you’d killed him.
Poetry Barbie
is off
her meds again. They mess with her
muse. She prefers the manic moodiness
of creative productivity. Ken does
not. He is hiding in the basement
of their Dream House waiting for this
latest nightmare to pass. Poor thing,
she laughs at his
timidity, ponders the passivity
of the image in question, then proceeds
to commit the crime of commemoration:
Her latest masterpiece
begins . . .
Electric Rain
Purple drops echo shades of royalty.
A dove cries
in recognition. The scene is nothing
if not shocking.
—
A.J. Huffman has published five solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her sixth solo chapbook will be published in October by Writing Knights Press. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
