poem: The Hunt
we flicker from pixel to pixel
the dream of this inverted world
our bodies dissolved into digits
the horizon flattens and winks out
into an oblate blank plane, stretched
thin between plates of strange glass
we are reborn with ease here
free to reconstruct, to glut ourselves
on electric subjectives
our bodies grow sallow and wan
in the cold glow of our displays
while our minds range, electric hounds
set loose upon the world
ravening for the taste of prey
What language does to unlearn us
unruly ones, who sang of impossible
beauty, a land of no imprisonment:
burns to a flame-razed field. Amnesia
is a kind of fire, one that leaves
ash on tongues uncoupled from amnesty.
Language wants to abandon its worlds
of commitments, watch them ignite
from a darkened row of cushions.
Visions made fallow by slash-and-burn
creep tendrils through the field,
green, unlanguaged beneath black soil.
We are here, uncontained. Escapist
fantasies cannot touch us, untrusting
as we are, made feral by betrayal.
We are the dark turbulent earth. We
are impossible whispers of the aglossic.
Michaela Mayer is a 24-year-old writer from Alexandria, Virginia. Among her poetry idols are Gerard Manley-Hopkins, Mark Strand, Fatimah Asghar, and Sylvia Plath. She has been previously published in Winged Nation and has an upcoming poem in Mineral Lit Mag.