Three Poems by A.J. Huffman

The Alligator Attacked

the infiltrator of his perceived territory

just as we crossed over their bridge.  Two

huge mouths, full of teeth, ascended

from water, locked against each other,

screamed outrage and indignation.  The wooden

planks beneath our feet shook with aggression,

but only momentarily as the younger,

sensing defeat, raced for cover of foliage

and the older smiled at us, a victor

graciously granting humans passage.

The Squirrel Tried

to get in the baby’s stroller. I guess he was tired

of running around, begging for nuts from strangers. 

The little girl seemed nice enough. She waved at him,

didn't try to hit him in the head with empty shells,

though she was surprised when he sprung

onto the seat next to her. She let him rest

his tail a moment before her mother shooed him away.

Iceberg

A frozen sea stands, a fort against the sun,

Invisible, an artist picking at its own

edges.  Sharp.

                        Smooth.

                                       Broken

to show the blue of forever

it holds like a key

to a secret

heart.

A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com