Scuttled in Their Stalls
A. H. Jerriod Avant
(for Bob Kaufman)
every throat a hose rusting inside out
live on the heels of panic blackberries
luring us into thickets none would
remember this if it were not for the hole
in his lie she blew his voice launching
through the car windows the brain will
always gather before it explains anything
even these rhythmic arms beg genuine bone
connected to bone connected to the
dwindling cartilage sand in an hourglass
it takes years to shatter a trial against an ego
a stronghold rising a parched knot
in the neck she strokes these braided straws
she walks across the floor with hands of work
much too torn for any of this holding
that she does at every house party she is
this candle we like to light her flicker we frame
her wax we swallow with our cold mouths
Madcap Review 