An Apple, A Fist, A Heart

In my dreams I am always a weapon,
shaped by rough hands and always steady.

How many ways can you domesticate a rifle?
I close my eyes and let the bells of blood gather.

When I awaken, I will take your hand 
and lead you through lush groves, vivid 

with oblivion, to the place, deep within the forest,

where the earth will one day open,
gaping forever in a soundless howl.

I will spit into your mouth
and from your throat will bloom

twin stalks: one that will grow apples
as red as the moon in full panic,

gleaming fruit that will burn the hands
of all the children who try to wrest it

from your branches, heedless of what 
harm they do.  The other will sprout

another throat, this one viscous and thick,
the speech issuing forth low and garbled, 

a language I refuse to learn, instead reveling 

in how although the shape of your mouth forms a snarl,
your lips blistered and twisted, all I will hear is a song,

and to its monstrous lilt I will dance, 

the sky beyond me as bright as bleached bone,
the wind as sharp and clean as pain.

Shannon Hozinec is here, queer, near, far, wherever you are.  She lives in Pittsburgh, PA and selected other works can be found in THRUSH, Deluge, decomP, The Bakery, and Palette Poetry.  Find her on IG: @mourntart.