A Hypnotic Moment
It was there,
I had it inside my gums.
And then it vanished.
Like everything external,
you can’t hold it
beneath your eyelids.
You just watch from afar
and wonder what it would be like
to tremble from the touch
by a finger from his heart,
seeping through his words.
The only thing left
is to cough up blood,
turn it into a mosaic.
I push my fingers
past the sharp prints
to snap out breaths.
Empty the pressure of your health
under my sheets, where the lights
shut down, asleep at last.
A hug that’s too tight, for too long
will let him go out into the forest
to make love to wet leaves.
Yearning for friction,
I stop stuffing my old stories
down your earlobes.
I grab hold of myself,
smile in the mirror
and whisper, I love you.
Springs of Heat
A black velvet sky blinks
something cross eyed with freckles.
It’s hard to see those hovering whistles
unless you think less
because you are alone tonight,
with the snow dead across the ice
as the sky blankets a soft pain
freezing your ears with memories
we can’t ever retrieve
by thinking too hard.
My hands are shivering bricks
as our toes collect the moist dirt that
will last through the earth’s shower.
Together let me be clean of you,
all the way around this galaxy.
Let me forget of you coming to
the right side of the bed,
concaving your curls to my torso,
I am forever stuck inside that igloo.
Hanna Pachman is a poet and filmmaker who uses writing as therapy to conquer objectification, health issues, and robot brains. Originally from Connecticut, she currently hosts a monthly poetry event, “Beatnik Cafe” and is an Assistant Editor for the poetry magazine, Gyroscope Review. Her poems appear in Oddball Magazine and Aberration Labyrinth.