Three Poems by Hanna Andrews

night driver

you’ve got your night posture on
your profile pieced together with cellular
backdrop & booth bearing cotton
your hands toy at the napkin holder
and beyond your elbow bright headlights
meet window but only long enough
to search for something to hold
their weight in place something with more
substance hence brick walls molecule
packed streets all stricken gray like
illness like a handshake anaphylactic
on standby like when the drill starts
and every fire hydrant is a panic button
every shadow is a sheepish boy in
his father’s clothes


I have done in it

have found my resolve under the floorboards

sought out the spot in the blinds where the butterknife
never reached where you left the screen door open and let
the insects in I have done it between mixed emotions
and admonishments it is like a cocktail made from dust
and grime a dry martini for the wenches I have been domestic
have toasted to cotton mouth and broadcloth settling
on backs I have done it have wrapped my thumb
around forbidden fruit opposable half-animal  I have held flesh
between the mandible more or less wounded myself
I have been the fig the prey the snapped twig behind
the jump I have been cast and cast away been heatwave
eating fruit with a fruit knife like a commodity like a lie
like obligations I have pulled hands out of visions
of packaged meat have seen the courtyard being blinding
which is to say I have seen her before known her before
I have filled my eyes with the same pail of water have
been the frame in a nightdress in the slit of that shade
I have gone away have gone famished I have only

to live to tell the tale

in the light it was shining

something bleak like a locket unsure of itself airtight
and shellshocked tupperware worn out on all sides but still bearing
the snap of working women with meat on their shoulders who
scold men with monosyllabic names too familiar to be trusted
who split red rib meat under the ricket of teeth and canopy
there is a racket going on with boys and their hotwheels there
are boys in suits discussing real estate with sharp shoulders
there are maryannes and kathyannes and raggedyannes past
the shed who are named after their grandmothers who offer
towels to the sticky fingered the ones small enough to climb
into the hole in the hedges where one might still might find themselves
lost where the light almost stops for the evening and streetlamps
where your life is a movie and the backdrop is glowing and what you
don’t know you don’t know

Hanna Andrews is a writer and student from Southern California where she is currently studying at Orange County School of the Arts in the Creative Writing program. She is a Staff Book Reviewer for The Coil and is a Senior Editor on Inkblot literary magazine. She was the 2017 winner of the Young Cúirt New Writing Prize for poetry through the Cúirt International Festival of Literature and was a finalist in the 2017 F(r)iction Winter Poetry Contest. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Rookie, Vagabond City, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Penn Review, Poetry Space, and Aerie International, among others, and she has a short methodology forthcoming in the Cockroach Blueprint Anthology through Thirty West Publishing House.

Edited by Sasha Leshner (Online Poetry Editor)

Image credit: Arshile Gorky, “The Artist and His Mother”, c.1926-36. Whitney Museum of American Art.

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