My time narrows into his phone,
waiting for him to call me,
as his brain gets morphed
into a dusty vessel of work emails.
Without warning, a bulldozer runs us over,
separating our livers from one another.
My car becomes a hollow tomb.
I scream sorry into the vortex
of wanting and kissing.
His tongue sticks out like a lizard
as I drive away, without my feet.
I land on the ground of my room,
but my shadow doesn’t follow.
I stand patiently at the window,
writing us back to life,
blinded by feathers of his muffled gasps.
One last love letter will
knock his head back into mine.
Barely existing by my breath,
I remember how good it felt
to hear him say, I love you.
Our shared music chokes me
awake at night, as I light my ears on fire.
A phantom version of me
sweats through my body,
squeezing the beginning out of my head.
I emerge as a wide-eyed child,
eager to befriend new creatures,
to wave our wild hips across
the puddle of lost lovers.
I reflect the still standing trees,
becoming a new society
of crazy to call my own.
Hanna Pachman is a poet and filmmaker who uses writing to conquer objectification, health issues, and robot brains. Her poetry has been published by or is forthcoming in Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Collidescope, What Rough Beast, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Oddball Magazine, and Aberration Labyrinth. Originally from Connecticut, she currently hosts a monthly poetry event, “Beatnik Cafe” and is an Assistant Editor for the poetry magazine, Gyroscope Review.
Image by Hanna Pachman
The Cabinet of Heed 