by Rose Hunter

comes in from the side
out of the black
the cars

crunch by
headlights extended a
     branch snaps a
bone that cracks like
through the house on tiptoe
     I think of
his white skin
and how much I like
     to think that

if things could have happened
if I could have done things

in a certain way and in
a certain order and
everything perfect

the police officer understood at once
     “and looking at this guy…”
with this sentence he puts a slash
     through he thinks
I made up a person or
     more likely I was just

conned blurred outlines of faces and
those things I used to believe

didn’t lie I wasn’t a gatekeeper
     able to
ward off his rage over the

of everything. And he was
nothing like the snow
biting into my cheek now
     but turns to this
chiffon when it hits the ground.

Rose Hunter has had stories in journals including The Barcelona Review and Storyglossia, and poems in Cordite, nthposition, Word Riot, Contemporary Verse 2, and Slow Trains. She also has poetry forthcoming in Juked. She is from Australia originally, lived in Canada for many years, and is now in Mexico. Links to her work can be found at her blog, Whoever Brought Me Here Will Have to Take Me Home.

Back to Issue Two: Winter 2009