TWO POEMS
Adam Moorad
Dry Season
The girl's wood burns. Red nubs spark on black matchsticks. I smell smoke in the breeze. "I'm calling the cops," I say. I mash the phone into her nose, dialing 7777777. "Ouch," she says. "Ouch!" Her lips cornice. Her husk ribs, pink teeth in the mouth of a conch. Our hair tangles and streams above us, unreachable in the night air.
Vespiary
A hornets' nest hatches through the vermillion wall. The swarm engulfs a resting woman. She stomps her rubber boots and flails her arms. She hurdles towards her window and springs gazelle-like into the alley, falling through a shower of glass. A three storey drop, breeze brushing hair from her face. Her voice exclaims a slushy running sound. Her mouth, wide open, a barn door expelling pollen and livestock.