AS A LOCUST AT THE LOAMING
When it is night, I never had a name.
Call me the red thing that ripens.
Persimmon distance and the moon
habitually howling at itself, wanting.
At night, my body is an abandoned house,
haunting its own hollows with pleasure.
Something about this primordial ache
sustains me — I know what it is to reckon
with the way the light falls across a lover’s
face only long enough for you to wish it hadn’t.
Shannon Hozinec is a poet and artist who lives in Pittsburgh, PA. She likes good whiskey, bad pickup lines, and long walks in the cemetery. She can be found primarily on IG: https://www.instagram.com/mourntart/.