heather hughes


            -after Asimov, Baldwin, Danielewski

Panic on a planet lacking the roar
of dark. Six suns and never a set.
You build a tunnel. You chant survival
while cities furnace and star-rockets rave,
horizons shrink to flame.

            You have to play it
            by ear
            and pray
            for rain.

Rain builds olive in a symphony.
Rain soldier steps. Rain keeps
a level head and calculates.

What you can’t hear blends
into ionic unnoise,
uncolor. The electric gone bland
while you pray for that jump-cut plunge

to the end. While you implore
a glimpse of gray, meaning light and rise.
Gray, meaning echo and union.

            Where there is no echo
            there is no description
            of space or love.

Indifferent stars, cease.


Avocado doesn’t know
            the ground sloth is gone.

The seed drops nowhere.
            We should drop dead

on demand, skin yielding
            and blackened.

We should emerge preserved,
            tenacious tar clinging

to joints. It’s complicated:
            are we fruit or fossil?

Museum experts rebuild
            a skeleton, understand

bones by the wires between.
            We’re dioramas, we’re Indian

Peace Medals, we didn’t go.
            Should we? Migrate? Plain,

red, mean. We condense
            to summary, diverse fats,

a forearm-long claw.
A narrative for the picking.

Heather Hughes
heather hughes
hangs her heart in Boston and Miami. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bad Penny Review<e/em>, Cream City Review, Grain, Hinchas de Poesia, Jai-Alai Magazine, and other journals. She MFA-ed at Lesley University and ALM-ed at Harvard University Extension. All her tattoos have wings. Poetry and other adventures at: www.birdmaddgirl.com.

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