THE NIGHTLIGHT ANNUNCIATION
Last night I dreamed that my front lawn was littered with the bodies
of elementary school principals. My instincts tell me this speaks to either
the death of American public education or the amount of podcasts
about murder I listen to. First thing in the morning, I bite the inside
of my cheek. I am bloody and inviting. What is it like to be dead?
the conspiracy theorist in me wants to scream at every frozen fish stick
in Whole Foods. Like that will make a difference. Like the moon
is vibrating so fast you can’t even see it. My stomach feels so heavy
like it’s falling. People fall out of love every single day. Imagine a version
of your boyfriend that’s the size of your thumb. A titty pocket you can carry
him around in. The greatest tragedy is a national aversion to hitchhiking. Or so
I tell myself. Or so what I don’t have the thumbs for that anyway. Inside my chest
there is a twelve-year-old girl throwing eggs from the roof of a three-story
building. The air smells like yellow rot in heat. The crows are laughing
three trees over. The never stopping. Her blood falls like a rope.
Image Credit: Joan Miró “The Hunter (Catalan Landscape)” (1924)
Holly Brown is a poet//farmer//children’s librarian//cat mom living in Boston. Her work is published or forthcoming in Barnhouse, Midwestern Gothic, DIAGRAM, and Jellyfish among others.