is a delayed growl standing several
steps behind the starring flash. Backup-
singing, supportive round of applause. Darker
partner waiting in invisible wings. Eruptive
echo marks the distance to point
of contact, countdown after-strike.
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Photo by the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration via Wikimedia Commons, 2005.
Follow the links for Huffman’s bio and more of her work at WIZ.
The garden sogs under persistent downpour. Green
grows with a sickly gray clinging like shadows,
cloud contamination. In a quiet corner, lone
hibiscus stretches petals toward sky, embraces
drops battering against brilliance. Resilient
as the solar power color emulates, it remains open,
a burst of warming reassurance that the sky cannot fall
forever.
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Photo by the poet. Follow the links for Huffman’s bio and more at WIZ.
after “Age of Abundance,” by Osnat Tzadok
Flares of imaginary fire burn across forest’s crown.
Light and leaves come alive, collectively breathe
in mirrored mist, rising like smoke from absent flame.
My eyes begin to water in belief. This is the image
of sulfured Hell. I pray for the salvation of sun-
rise.
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A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and 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.
Photo by Albert Herring via Wikimedia Commons: “89 Mesa Fire, 5/6/10.” Tzadok’s landscape can be seen here.
Cherry Tomatoes
hang in clusters on delicate vines. The plants
are caged, potted in the driveway. All summer
they have drowned in rain and hose water until flowers
became hard green cysts that grew, ripened and split
wide open. I salvage what I can into folded shirt-basket
though I know no one will eat them. Most have fallen
onto rocks below, dots of bloody pulp punctuate stone.
Wasted.
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Photo by Nate Dworsky.
Salzano’s bio can be found here. For more of her poetry at WIZ, go here.
Wilderness Interface Zone 