About the Feature

The interior holds out its leathery hands.
It wants to take me to California
Where technicians will construct my head,
And where the streetlights are broken yolks
And small furry things crawl up my legs.

I decline the offer so the interior flips a switch
Which makes my teeth cold as though
I am eating ice cubes in luminous fog.
I eat the ice cubes and the city evaporates.
Rain clouds swab my eyebrows with sleep.

A bee lands between me and the interior
Where a thicket has sprouted up.
When I step inside I lose the ability to think
But my ability to blow suddenly into a thousand pieces
Separates me from the interior which

Trembles like a newborn lamb.
Poor interior, it is only a pink thing
Puking out breast milk. It is only this
Persuasive reflex churning in
The darkening hole of myself.

O Interior! My wounds are your wounds!
I drizzle them over your outstretched canvas
And drill holes so the light will reach us on
The other side where a canola field
Is waiting to wrap us in its breath.

Dear Interior, I have no interior!
I am a shaved head turning into a field of breath,
This is the final birth and when the wind
Starts spinning a circle of leaves
An invisible man leaps out of the center.


About the Author

Nathan Hoks is the author of Reveilles and The Narrow Circle. He lives with his family in Chicago where he runs Convulsive Editions.