Poetry by Hannah Lamb-Vines
trauma leaks.
sop it up with soft cloths.
forgot i kept it there.
je te manque, peut être, parce que,
où est la toilette?
never miss french class, never
learn french.
my third first poem (in english):
peeled clementines, pitted avocados, bikes at the end
of a road. some words you don’t need in there.
dying, for sure.
had each other, didn’t
even know it.
empty hands heads pockets rooms.
if you wanted to speak french, you would speak french.
the flu
or nothing: a ball
of fire at the center of a rock.
it’s not 2014, so you have different priorities.
je veux fumer.
quoi? une cigarette, ou?
je veux te fumer. bailed
for the bathroom again.
water in a paper cup.
wandering the barn for a refill.
je veux
me vider.
boil eggs for eight minutes at 194 degrees. distracted
by a ball of fire.
spent last night in the studio.
unbrushed teeth. it’s okay.
how are you two
related?
a stand in,
a ghost. it’s okay.
we’ve known each other our whole lives.
Hannah Lamb-Vines is writing a novel about a woman who inexplicably births a sheep dog.
You can find her on instagram @embarrassed4evr and on twitter @profesh4evr
