Shannon Hozinec: Four Poems

[Night, she comes]

she comes

to collect.
A ghost amidst

the roaches. Her breath
shakes birds loose from the trees.

Eyes blue as chemical bile.
Copper hair curled, coiled at her nape.

A stillness, untouched. At her elbow,
a bowl of peaches, ripening to blood.


[And now the heat.]

now the

heat. Now the
sharp smolder of

inherited grief.
Abandoned cars, heaped high,

create a cracked horizon.
A thicket of asphalt, steaming.

Lambs leaking oil in the pasture.
I float on my back in the red water.


[Our bellies full,]


full, we watch
the abattoir

pearl its roses
out onto the black streets

at dusk, the gutters blushing.
Overhead, the moon bulges, pale

as the face of a drowned man. Tell me,
beloved— am I still your animal?


[Blood grazes]


the field. Man
of smoke, he roams

under a green sky.
Obsolete machines, grand

skeletons of wire and steel,
gleam overhead. Trailing behind,

his black steed limps, leaks light. Stringy mane
aflame. Still, they outpace what chases them.

What are you looking for?