HANNAH BROOKS-MOTL


11: OF PROGNOSTICATIONS

On the driveway caressing an innermost self
I picked up a sharpie and drew on my hand—an honest happening
It meant nothing

Once I had fallen in love, once out of
My dumb hand, fat star
And systems of terrible odds

“By spirits, bodily traits, dreams, and the like”
My ancestors work a public gloss
Their great fond wagers

All infinite, all common:
“A husband-man, digging very deep”
Hits the white
 
 
 
 
23: OF CUSTOM, AND NOT EASILY CHANGING AN ACCEPTED LAW
 
 
In fear of innovation one grew
 
 
Something from another vat
 
 
“Nothing that custom will or cannot do”
 
 
Like the law to go into, almost vacant, a church
 
 
Where ugliness depends on itself
 
 
Where men piss squatting, do women walk backward to dawn
 
 
Or live on spiders and make provision of them
 
 
Where fire is the annual present
 
 
“Is it they who make the echo we hear”
 
 
Beat, then disturb
 
 
This motor
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



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