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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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