by
alyssa hanna
the visitors always come, but they always end up leaving.
swollen families stay and watch like we are some kind of artwork
but i think we are a monument, some testament to life after death,
because i always hear them say
how wonderful it is to see them again
but i don’t recall ever meeting these faces.
maybe we are some reborn gods the world re-swallowed after vomiting us
into an unknown void where our worshippers could not follow,
and now we have been returned to our priests;
i don’t remember the afterlife at all.
Editor’s Note: Galliralus owstoni was originally published in Cholla Needles.
alyssa hanna graduated from Purchase College in May 2016 with a degree in Creative Writing and a minor in History. Her poems have appeared or are upcoming in Reed Magazine, The Naugatuck River Review, Barren Magazine, Rust + Moth, BARNHOUSE, Pidgeonholes, and others. She was also nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize and was a finalist in the 2017 James Wright Poetry Competition. alyssa is an aquarium technician in Westchester and lives with her fish and special needs lizards. follow her @alyssawaking on twitter, instagram, ko-fi, and patreon.
