This fever has cooked baby birds
into jerky, cured stiff for the gash
teeth. O-hail the crab grass needling
sockets wet with pond, the skin marks
like a solar eclipse. And Temagami
still burns. We’re laying insects
to rest. We’re using a puppy as blotting
paper. We’re charging our Pride outfits under the solstice’s
sticky bright gloss; a way to ward off
a phobic forecast. The Sun is the original
flamer, giving us hir all. The gaytriarchy
is a drag queen
body slamming a lone lez
on an empty dance
floor. You release your witch heart
as hound. And your bra, as talisman
to 3 am. The bar floor
plays prophet; milk-beard
smoke signals through thrifted mesh.
Your neon lights will shine
Xanadu, now we
are here, sweet peas blooming
crisp spines to jimmy open dawn’s
A house can be its own ghost. As a child, I felt
mine try to wait; aren’t we all just living
for that after life?
I practice devotional dreaming, now a gutted
blowing into its own hollows; it's ass
up in the night like an ant
ready to kamikaze itself into
goo. It will never again know
what it’s like to live
with us inside it.
I cure & swallow its
cold meat; dunkin’ dot morsels
radiator, the scent of wood expanding in summer.
Repeat her communion, all night/every night
‘til the whole house agape
from inside your soft body, &
your pussy hair
stands on end.
Alex Hall received her BA in Cinema Studies from the University of Toronto. Her poems have appeared & are forthcoming in Underblong Journal, Dyke Queen Zine, Grimoire, Occulum & Room. She lives and works as a dog walker in Toronto, Ontario.