Gillian Hamel

*

from OAK

*

o

no one sings in the built up parts of the city.
prehistoric birds block traffic. a severed hand still
bites, as the brain invents new ways to kill you—at
night, your imagination does not belong to you. a
mirror means symbols upside down. a mirror means,
this reflects poorly. sound bites matter—there are no
mirrors in a disaster. what a terrible thing to call a
thing. what a senseless thing is metal fired. now we
find out what the mirror stands for.

*

o

on the nights I desire most I die by water. on the
nights that black out, the dead come inside my house.
recently, whales swarm the shore. someone is
stealing my mouth from the backseat as I store up
time for later transcription, whiskey dying by my bed.
someone counts my ink out of ordinary. I count capital
strikes by my hand, hoarding the print. stale drinks
begin to smell of baking bread.

*

o

walk me in a circle. blown rocks make the border and
the sea can’t comfort. I dine on intervention to prevent
the shore from dead gravel, burying our bullies. the
ancestral fence and roses. who cast the ocean to our
doorstep. stumps of pillars in the outlier. at night my
feet were not so leaden to behold glass and faces. all
this behind a wedding discourse, weaken my dissent.
all your descendants left to moaning.

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