squirrels to glass
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New poems by A.J. Huffman


Carnivorous Cannibal


squirrels, acting as if

they are on bath salts, devour random

pieces of my hibiscus tree. All claws

and teethly concentration. Petals, bark,

buds, nothing’s spared their savagery.

I watch them from behind

the screened porch door, meet

their unstartled stare. It clearly resonantes:

no fear.

I instinctively touch my face, wish

for a more solid partition.



a line, (a blue one)


The Tree Was There


My sister laughs, now, 40+

years later, attempting to explain

how she once broke the cast

on her already broken arm.

The perfect example of stupidity, unrelenting

competitiveness, she was 8 and a half and following

our brothers’ lead, determined, as always,

not just to keep up but to outdo

them in their own pursuits. She succeeded, of course.

Her double damage sustaining an infamy

worthy of decades of retelling

despite its lack of causing

permanent scar.



a line, (a blue one)


Nineteen Blessings





a standing prayer


a song

the garden




a searching forest








ink to paper



a line, (a blue one)


I Am Glass


Half-empty, a mouth

open wide in welcome hope

of precipitation. There is always

too much desert to allow a spike

in my level. I have an aptitude

for arid. Hollow, my cactus

covering is more costume than

functioning form of life.

I remain, gutted

shell, rooted in quick-

sand, a sinking icon of economical

deluge. There is a possibility

I could swallow myself at any moment,

disappear inside

a choking outpour of dust.



a line, (a blue one)


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