Hannah Carpino is a poet and short story writer living in Colorado. Her work has previously been published in Stoneboat Literary Journal, Inflectionist Review, Hobart, and more.
**these poems are forthcoming in the chapbook Bite Comparison Study by Bottlecap Press**
**these poems are forthcoming in the chapbook Bite Comparison Study by Bottlecap Press**
01.
NIGHTGUARD
brush my teeth freezing
under screaming central air
cover my nipples with one arm
use two mirrors to measure
roundness in three dimensions
let my dry tongue loll in my
ruined mouth let my head
fall away completely look up
at cement wall nothing stars
touch borders and learn only
that like a stingray or
a sharpened virgin I am
a weapon to wield I need
you to say it into me I need
the belly striped with static
I need you to say it into me
thru your crossbite
such a gentle thing
03.
TOWER GROVE For Quinn
The park in spring is mammal-smelling,
orange-ripe. At nighttime,
we fly through channels of haze,
the heat between
an arm and ribs,
the wet suspension.
I could be folded into the blanket of this, signals
like monkeys chattering back and forth,
a barometer, a shout.
The streetlights keep blinking
when they catch the gold on her finger.
orange-ripe. At nighttime,
we fly through channels of haze,
the heat between
an arm and ribs,
the wet suspension.
I could be folded into the blanket of this, signals
like monkeys chattering back and forth,
a barometer, a shout.
The streetlights keep blinking
when they catch the gold on her finger.
Her grip on the handlebars.
Some residual wind
lives in shells and pink ears.
One unwaking doorway to another.
I lean forward from the back of the bike
to speak into her hair.
My chest to her shoulder blades.
For a second, on my open mouth,
I can feel the air I drink
full of tomorrow’s rain.
lives in shells and pink ears.
One unwaking doorway to another.
I lean forward from the back of the bike
to speak into her hair.
My chest to her shoulder blades.
For a second, on my open mouth,
I can feel the air I drink
full of tomorrow’s rain.
02.
MEN ARE FROM MARS, WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS
I’ve accepted my role and everything else is just window dressing–
the limp protestations, the blunt edge of an object that never appears.
When I’m lying on the table I look everywhere except the pain.
Outside is a latticework of branches and blue. I stare until my eyes dry out.
I let myself go like a yell across a canyon. In this ritual, I forget aftercare,
jettison everything, take it all off in the doorway, even my socks.
It feels like remembering my lines after a hot and prolonged silence.
Or maybe I’m a phone line operator. Something better than a body.
I know where to be without anyone telling me.
I half-listen to the denial of responsibility and it’s so clean I almost
become a believer. I’m saying yes, of course and wondering
if I should get a prescription for tretinoin.
I always have them string me back together
loosely, and with dental floss.
It’s getting easier all the time.