HANNA PACHMAN


Hanna Pachman is a poet, whose work is forthcoming in or has been
published by Rattle, The MacGuffin, Anti-Heroin Chic, Catamaran
and others. She currently hosts and curates a monthly poetry event,
"Beatnik Cafe" which has been running since 2018. Hanna was an
Asst. Editor for the poetry magazine Gyroscope Review for two years.






What Can God Do with Social Media?

He thought he could always surround you.
What does it take to be every one's square root,
the words that get shared again and multiplied
by infinity, the medicine that keeps you awake forever?

Why can't he be both your wizardly grandfather
and your vapid swimsuit model?

He is keeping an eye on you, kisses you
in the dark, will watch everything
you recommend as he scrolls through billions
of photos of sexy people flossing. You are seen.
You are turning a new age.

Now is your chance to tweet
that you are depressed. Get creative.
Show us your boobs without showing us
your boobs. Say Happy Mother's Day.

God is watching. He's horny.
He's sentimental. He's hungry.

He's your filter, a shadow that you
mistake for a rat, a dark room
with thousands of candles trying to get
turned on by electricity.

He is the typewriter collecting dust
and looking pretty,
the lover who didn't want to sleep over,
the pupils of Mona Lisa
stirring always and never.






When We Were Horny

I.

We were outside molding our breasts into the snow.
We learned penis in every language.
The running through red leaves and sweating
and sweating and passing the same house.

When we were addicted, we wanted medicine
to make us be someone else. When we were addicted,
we were horny, we had not yet had it.

Pulling the blades of grass that came with
ladybugs, we wanted danger more
than danger wanted to show up.

It was before we became pain together,
before we learned to close our eyes
when the fog rolled through our foreheads,
before we learned to trick him into believing
we were conscious the whole time.


II.

When we were horny, I traveled 2,865 miles
away from home to find you. You are my pain,
the reaching for air that has no echo.
You are the body between us.

What was fun was the time I didn't have sex but
wanted to touch someone's hair. I kept a secret blog
about being a virgin, telling the world
that I was addicted without consuming anything.
This was before I found you. Without the pulsating
fruit of body and window, there is no fullness.

I turn around when you show up,
tightening my thighs.
I feel the wanting when I have nothing on.

I want to know the mystery of moaning.


III.

What if we kiss and my eyes leave my skin.
What if we fuck enough for me to forget
that being a woman is more than wanting
you to see me as one.

An orgasm is harder to track
when you have trouble breathing.
What if I put my hand on my stomach and slowly
keep going down. What if we walk towards
the world instead of away from each other.



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