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Jackie Hollowell


I place a bullet on the altar, I place the altar under a window. The altar a window, the window a bullet. I keep my hands in my pockets to search for lost bones. If left alone, how long until archeologists speak of my offerings? If left alone, how long until nobody speaks? I hold my tongue in the palm of my hand, cradle it like a glass relic. My god, if I am of nature, why does everything I touch become unnatural? When I sing your praise, I am the song and also the swallowing of it: A bullet makes a bigger hole coming out than going in: the curtain never fully covers the window. My god, there is so much I could ask of you.


I had a dream, Mother. I was swallowed by the moth as I spared it from the cobweb. My wings collecting dust, my teeth filled with wool. I swept the trappings from my ceiling and plucked the moth from the bristles. Oh Mother, swallowed whole. Oh Mother, I opened wide. I’ve fallen into spiral, entered the snake after it already held its tail between its jaws. I was the jaw, I chased the tail. I was the tail, I could not see the jaw. Oh Mother, swept away. Oh Mother, back to life.

Jackie Hollowell is an extremely queer writer and teacher. She was born in the Pacific Northwest but lives in Vietnam. You can find her on Twitter @6Hollowell

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