Picnic in the Abbattoir | Emma Hyche

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Emma Hyche is a poet and essayist currently based in Denver, Colorado. A recent graduate from the Colorado State University MFA in Poetry, her prose and poetry appears in LITApartmentEntropyDenver Quarterly, and elsewhere.




Cavity with a little blood in it

I walk at night alone
because I’m beginning
to feel crazy

in the pejorative sense
in bedroom cocoon the room turns
its face to the wall

you say you slept today and woke
with the sensations of a demon
crouching low on your chest

exhaling hot air like bath
water spill on your face
now sprinklers gurgle on

and through glazy window
a man washes dishes and is him
self bathed in gold

on the sidewalk,
husks of seed pods are snakes
with fangs bared


I cannot
see myself
out of this—

the stomach
turns over
in bed,

the demon

the candles
and light them

I have

on the future
to receive
me at all

The first
thing to know
about future

is that
it may not

the demon
may never
get up