& have been for about three weeks now. I don’t remember ‘yesterday’;
I’m all like scrambled eggs, oh my baby…I had all these FANTASIES:
go missing, go nameless, elated. Slip into a red hold. A strongarm silent
muscle cradle above the crowds, carrying me parallel to the drugged liquid
speed of collective action. Or something. I know, I know, your name
is still so soft, a mohair halo, a dreamword that melts sweetly when thought
into shape. I’m not reeeeally demagnetized with amnesia, not post-context,
not point unplotted. …how I love your legs! But how I love my own, too!,
& my good drugs!, & my fool heart!, & the warm center I wake back
into again & again, with wonder, with natural wonder, a little wonder
beyond the echo of your designation, beyond the ocular field of your
sweaty dress shirts, my dead pet names.


To learn more about Hanna Andrews, visit her blog Hatching Supernovae.