X | by Alex Hall

Queen Anne’s lace cooks
in the ditch of the
404. I can still hear the dog
whining in the back seat, there are no
bravery drugs left to hide.

I dream of grizzlies
burying spoons
in mud.

Lilac shadows mark
the spots along the banks of
             that old Snake Lake where
you stood all milked and
quivering, air thick as preemie spring.

Nautilus ridges
like a riverbed flare wet
              & rubied
over a body newly eclipsed.

C’mon swamp cakes, c’mon
clotted blood all
charred to ash. I could use
a bouquet of communion
onto my tongue, for you

but the throat
              is a highway
bending towards halos.



Alex Hall received her BA in Cinema Studies from the University of Toronto. Her poems have appeared & are forthcoming in Waccamaw Journal, Underblong Journal, Dyke Queen Zine/Hello Mr Magazine & Grimoire. She lives and works as a dog walker in Toronto, Ontario.

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