Guest Alligator Poem #1 by Kenny Mooney

Our first "guest written" alligator poem comes from Kenny Mooney. My thanks to Kenny for sending this one along--it's terrific, right?


They stalk these corridors, damp hisses through dry dust, tails dragging over floorboards stained with black-red. They throw shadows against flat yellowing walls in these abandoned apartments, reflections in windows ghosting their bodies, jump cutting through pools of amber light. Their bodies crawl and slide over one another; heads turning against one another; jaws opening, showing teeth to one another. They fight and kill and devour one another. In these dry dust halls, under sick-orange lamplight. They gather around her bed, their scraping claws, hissing breath and grinning teeth, a song sung in the umbra, a hot hymn on the rotten stench of their writhing bodies. They arch their backs, open maws raised to the tangle of bedding and limbs. She hears them sing, her hospital white skin awakening, blood bleeding through cotton in cold water. Her eyes open as their song builds. Neon flickers against windows frames; electricity moves through polyester uniforms. She sits upright, her eyes collapsing gravity wells pulling the light into her. Her hands stretch out to them. Her hands stretch out to caress them. In these dry dust halls, their lowing moves through stone and bone.