Hoag Holmgren

The desk in her small room is ordinary except for its vanishing. Pen, sponsored by eye, removes all organs from the page save the heart. Another room, its walls either black or nonexistent, opens. There the sarcophagus sits. Hieroglyphs carved in stone lid, reading her. Vulture. Scarab beetle. Squidself. The phone ringing in the other room. Black bear, rune-starved, scowls a snout to her chin.

No Vestige of a Beginning No Prospect of an End

Soon our breath will seize the banner, the body’s blight retreating. Never mind that lust is lust for oneself. For a place where seats are suede where limbs of ash seem safe from wind. Where you are, dear, beside me. You too cracking knuckles until the film begins.

Hoag Holmgren's fiction has appeared in Story Quarterly, Denver Quarterly, and Quarter After Eight. Samples of his digital video work are forthcoming in Drunkenboat (Drunkenboat.com) and his short film Route '33 will be screened at the 2004 ROADance Film Festival in Park City, Utah. He lives in Nederland, Colorado.

In Posse: Potentially, might be ...