Hannah Brooks-Motl


Tonight I feel hateful toward her, which equals me

When she appears, it’s a lowest moment: a cause anterior to
whatever meaning

She’s poor, but worth seeing

In any case how does one’s age feel but as everything
orange, or loading

It’s all been narrative honey. Habits execute the uncanny


On the corner two boys, a girl; the moon replaces an emotion

Not speaking from the outside, if you hear a voice that’s lying

And the blunder reliably sent or perceived across each act of pleasure

Another bit of bafflement

She follows me through every computer


One is somewhere: New England, California, the Midwest or simply temper

One’s a place I’m going off from called

The cubby
The hot tide
The gif

Or is luster mere reliance?


“He fell into a brown study,” she wrote the falling
yet I don’t mind how vigor has its outlook
concomitant with logo

Like a vandal in the terrace one belongs, or does not belong

Are these the options?


Intensity grows its one leg, growing longer and not intenser

Yet I have fallen to the blue—it tears the scripture
into life-ness

Hannah Brooks-Motl was born and raised in Wisconsin. Her poems and criticism appear or will soon in Best American Experimental Writing, Bookforum, Fence, and Typo, among others. She is the author of the chapbook The Montaigne Result (Song Cave, 2013) and the full-length collection The New Years(Rescue Press, 2014). She currently lives in Chicago

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