Hunter Hodkinson


I feed my gluttony 
to the page,
white and bottomless
it takes and takes
and takes;
its favorite meal is
yearning stew
and the big fleshly 
ladles that stir,
the contents
to a thin 
paint gleam
like the effulgent 
blood of angels.

In Response To Prestigious Literary Journals

I’m sure you 
expect me to sit
patient and crumb 
upon your nine 
month response
to words that weep
from my fingers,
as you take 
your sweet and careful 
time to tell me
no your tears are too sour.
I’m sure you 
expect me to smile 
when I send you money 
I do not have
for an automated 
we wish we could 
offer a more personalized
response, but we simply
don’t have the time 
or numbers… 
I also,
do not have the money 
for button click heartbreak. 
I don’t have the time 
for your 
no simultaneous submissions policy;
so yes,
I shall continue 
to carpet bomb
every magazine I see,
no matter how 
“rude” it seems.
Like all pain,
mine demands 
to be seen.


Last month
it was Ginsberg who 
uprooted my flowery words
and replanted them
in the spry soil
of famine India. 
Beginning of October 
it was Sylvia 
who beat nails 
of rhythmic craft 
into my paper mâché
Now it is Anne 
who’s Sexton stories 
of fifties madness
and feminine isolation 
strangles my stanzas 
like the mellow fists 
of monoxide.

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