Hannah Lamb-Vines

domesticated

 

who said a wolf can't change his mind?  alpha

strategy, fur-lined war games. replicat

-ion, or propagation. red-toothed howling

hunter hungers ‘cause that kill won't last. con-

sider a pack to feed a possession.

moonlit valley, or the will to live? yeah,

wolves want to live. what does that make me? un-

natural? take the lone wolf, trailed by her

own empty belly. she's survived this long,

some longing in her stalking. so she stalks

something longer, the liminal looking

like seduction. seeking something alpha,

replication. with shadow wolf, i want

to live. a possession? what does that make

lamb-vines.jpg

paying rent

 

yeah i like it raw.

a bedroom studio, a dog barking.

a lifetime of no erased in one night.

 

starting

at the roots,

in this case rhythm. who has it?

 

there are some things the body’s not

meant to do. there it goes

that cop car barking, that siren

howl. wolves don’t own economies.

they have it, we don’t.

 

a lifetime of knots untangled.

break to bleed on white blankets.

 

 

i’m not responsible for what

the question concerns: object and agency.

i could be better, but why should i?

 

portraits of artists are going to be ugly.

 

there i go

wringing the rag dry.

you just have to accept it,

if you know me, you might

show up.

 

a reflection where it’s unclear

what’s solid,

what’s just a pane of glass.

siri says it’s not nice right now but it should be later

 

yeah, want a world

where pick up trucks and

king beds don't make my

toes ache. where magic

don’t mean denial.

where horses talk back

and the moon blah blah...

is that anything?

a lotta wanting

leave me lonelier.

so i wonder why

the lovers run when

they could just, like, sit

next to each other,

hot cheeks hot lips hot

hands not quite touching...

and the moon blah blah...

i've been wanting some

thing. like, any bare

skin touch or kneecap

graze. my dry face flakes

away metaphor.

i've cleaned the house of

poetry, took two

showers today to

blah blah the dead stuff,

still can't find that fresh

new shine. enough, moon.

you mock me, with your

silver grin. is this
anything? do you,

moon, blah blah with the

tides? tomorrow i'm

a fig, yearning for

a wasp. tomorrow

is the start of blah

blah, the moon digging

her dirty finger

nails into me. like,

what does she expect

to find there, you know?

do you, moon, know? don't

you, uh, know there’s no

tomorrow? my knee

caps knock against each

other. they neigh, like

no, that’s me, my howl.

who howls back? any

body? the moon looks

like a bellyful

of future. hey moon,

did you eat all the

tomorrows? did you

blah blah my picket

fences, king beds, pick

up trucks, straight toes, horse

tongues? oh moon, i am

projecting. i want

to say i’m sorry,

but my lungs are stuffed

with pride. i might buy

a gun instead. is

that enough of an

apology? is

that, you know, blah blah...

 

is that?

Hannah Lamb-Vines has work featured or forthcoming in Neutral Spaces Magazine, Columbia Journal, ctrl+v, HAD, and Perhappened, among others. Her micro-chap, carnal delights, is available from Ghost City Press. Follow her on twitter or instagram @embarrassed4evr.

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