You, At All

By: Hannah Nathanson

Packed an overnight bag to swim with the fish, I’ll get top bunk to the whales. Brought a bottle of corsets, a harvest of sand, a sixth grade classroom of shipwrecks. Bloody glass turning to the sea. Out to dry. I don’t know what you said that made me change the subject. Bowl of pizza grease, box of screws, garage of flannel shirts, bedroom floor of motorcycles. Out to dry. For the first time. I don’t know what you said that made me so nervous. Shelves of lamp shades for the noise, ceilings for the light. Engines of scrap wood, drawers of exhaust. I don’t know what you said. I don’t know. It’s this slimy kinda monster, this collage of gross sobriety, this dolphin doing tricks in the bathtub.

Hannah Nathanson is a poet concerned with the sentience of objects. She recently completed an honors thesis in poetry through Binghamton University. Her work appears in Sage Cigarettes, Rejection Letters, Peach Mag, and elsewhere. She is the author of Alternative Universes (Bone & Ink Press, 2020) and was a recipient of the 2021 Academy of American Poets Prize. Hannah spends her time creating and loving throughout New York State.