Three Poems


Boys pressing their shirts because mothers.            
                                                All I ever wanted
            was no cruelty. 

                        Now the brain become a dish
                                    that sorry eats up.

I’ve put three gashes in my side—
                                          out comes oil, milk, more oil.
                                          I need no clothes.

will be my river. 


The earth, it makes a mighty smell.    People: 
                                                                      sweet and funny
                                                                      rotting things. 

I have to love 


those rotting things;
                        look at mirrors, windows, ponds,
                        saying Hannah,
                                    you’re a scooped-up animal.      


here I come.  


                        But where can go
my little shoes,


crying like a choke


on something?                       

Shut up, snotty babies,
                        Hannah needs her heart fall out
and sleep under some cold  rock/ tree.


Casa Grande

At the Casa Grande disco, men hold on
to other men’s behinds, and women
hold on to men’s behinds, 
and everyone is holding on
to what it means to be dancing
and holding on, and I am there 
too, doing the two things
I am always doing: 
holding on, and drinking enough 
water so that tomorrow I’ll be able 
to document all the things humans do
to endear themselves to me, conscious 
of how dancing means that the music 
will bring them closer,
and take them further away.


Biotic/ Abiotic

This is the movement 
a poem makes: a trash bag
breaking and breaking 
until a brilliant red pear 
falls out, whole and un-
troubled-- how did that 
happen?  You moved around 
me like a plastic daisy 
on a plastic stem, spinning 
in yardwind. We never really 
got it together. I think you prefer 
astronomy because how far away 
everything is is exactly 
the order of things. I prefer poems, 
but I understand that their human smell 
is often troubling. The lack of this 
is another good thing 
about star's dying, I guess.

Hannah Gamble

Poems originally published in the book Your Invitation to a Modest Breakfast, by Hannah Gamble, selected by Bernadette Mayer for the National Poetry Series, and published by Fence Books.