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Hanae Jonas

Northern Gothic



What I sleep with:

your blood on my quilt.


As the dream mechanism pulls me

into some dumb cranny.


Even in sleep I can’t

wash clean my accounts:


the shame all over the bed

I tried to sponge away.


The moon slit open,

the animals

that slid out. Yes,


it was a blast: the blood

on your cheek, my thigh dramatic,


the sodium light

through the curtain gap amber.

Every night


a full moon.

An entire month of full moons.



Private Party



Summer swooning like a schoolboy.

I try not to picture your hands.


A damp wind poring over

thin corollas

then the dirt dirtied with pink. All day


I work around the stunner: your

thumb-trace on my lips.


Intuit: to understand      

or work out by instinct.

The method by which wind figures. Your fingers,


what are they doing

in this private party.


Their slack shape close

as a necklace around my thoughts. Unbearable


is the air inside

summer’s cathedral of moods.




Want more? Read our WHAT WHAT HOW interview with Hanae!

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