He whipped the horse. It was dead.
Flies scattered at the lash-crack, then lighted
again on the eyelid, half-closed and leathery
over the dull, glassy eye.
He kissed the mouth. It was made of stone:
cold against the furious hunger of
his tongue. He chipped his tooth and swore.
He drank the ocean. It was salted
and burned in the bleeding cracks
of his lips.
He shot the gun. It was empty.
Kicked the mountain. Hollow.
Tore the cloth. It was silent.
Touched the fire. Dull.
Drew back the veil, a dusty room;
unlocked the cage, bird didn’t sing;
opened his eyes. Dark.
Jane Hahn studies Theology and Honors Mathematics at the University of Notre Dame, while also working as a copyeditor, painter, and notetaker. When not singing with the Magnificat Choir here on campus, she spends time consuming and creating visual and written art.