Before:
one death at a time,
slow. killer watches
choked gurgles +
wonders what is severed
within- the soul or the
body? tomorrow-
or is it now?-
blood leaves the killer’s heart
dull, lacking oxygen.
During:
another one, nearby.
i startle when the classroom
door opens, transforming my B into
a hybrid, non existent letter. i keep
a baseball bat behind my desk
and memorize which crawl spaces
fit the most preschoolers.
After:
I cannot imagine such a thing,
not with blood splattered
cereal boxes. I cannot imagine
such a thing, not with more bullets
than ants. I cannot imagine such
a thing, not even within the boundless
capacity of a poem.
Bio – Hannah Rousselot (she/her) is a queer French-American poet and author. Her poetry has appeared in Parentheses Magazine, Kissing Dynamite, The McNeese Review, and The Blue Nib and others. She has published the poery collections Fragments of You (Kelsay Press) and Ocean Currents (Finishing Line Press). She is the winner of the Gateway Review Flash Fiction Prize. She also reviews other poet’s works on hannahrousselot.com and is the host of the podcast Poetry Aloud. You can follow her work on facebook.com/hmrpoetry or @hannahrousselot, or hannahrousselot.com.
