LUNA REY HALL
earth says
you keep whispering extinction
like it’s some dirty word.
that surface basalt leak,
those luscious lava pores,
a little acidified ocean blood,
you gasping for oxygen.
i crave it all. divine me an ice age.
gamma ray my make-up.
i like my luminous space.
give me that sulfide mouth.
the whole of me is volcanic,
why wouldn’t i erupt?
you think some crater will
knock me out? that’s nothing
but a sore. i’ve been here
before. nothing more
i appreciate than survival.
you think a few thousand years
means you’re gods. no—
you’re a blink of my eyes.
if you don’t make it,
you were never meant to.
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*** ** ***
phase one
sulfur mouth emission. slung boulders,
pitching machine and methane
and the hot residue of volcanic activity.
fissure and flow. molten sheets stacked.
carbon dioxide belched from
a bloodstream heat.
an unbridled desire for change. a flood
basalt firework, gas stained sky, acidic sea,
a factory reset.
in all our predestined worrying— we see it happening
and wonder if we can swim in lava.
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*** ** ***
trans zombie film
it goes like this every time:
common cold / blood sneeze
viral anxiety / organ plaster /
a parade of intestines
public panic and slaughterhouse /
soldiers aiming at civilians
/ the Humvee over- turned /
bullets unspooling brains
/ skulls of mulch / a family
escapes the hysteria / countryside
abandoned home / another
near escape / biochemical
trepidation / bleach kissed
bite wound / mall bathroom
/ rib cage dress / leaving
the friend or mother or brother
behind / chained to the stall /
everybody saying the person
they knew / no longer exists
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*** ** ***
an analogy: a burning world
you want to say the world is burning.
easy. that gets people motivated.
it passes the eye-test. sniff test,
crackle birch hearing aid.
heat palm / heat palm. an image
people can swallow: soot the roof
of their mouth with. damage
their trachea with, really feel it
in their esophagus. but
the thing about fire is: it gives in eventually.
soak suppressant, oxygen cut-off,
tucked under a damp towel, forgotten.
so never mind,
it’s the perfect analogy.
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*** ** ***
samara fruit
fell asleep under a silver
maple. body a curled finger.
awoken, in the
iridescent blinking of
autumn,
by the papery
wings of a
samara fruit
tumbling down my nose.
helicopter landed
in my lap. dreary,
i pinch it by the seam,
bulbous ovary
between my fingers
before tossing it
into the air.
how the wind takes
it, an impulsive flutter,
then it ballets
to the ground like
it would have
before i
impeded its path.
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*** ** ***
farewell to the boy i was
like a lost insect
found in the basement
saved by the hand.
palm as its engine
to the outside.
set on the tall grass.
the sky overhead
pulsing and clear.
go;
be free.
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luna rey hall
luna rey hall is a queer trans non-binary writer. they are the author of space neon neon space (Variant Lit, 2022), no matter the diagnosis (Game Over Books, 2023), the patient routine (Brigids Gate Press, 2023), and loudest when startled (YesYes Books, 2020), longlisted for the 2020 Julie Suk Award.
To download a printable PDF version of this page, click here.
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A Dozen Nothing 