Hannah (rev'd)

i.

in a deep, inky darkness, a dance hall, shrouded
with smoke, the smell of beer, Hannah sits and listens

to the striking confessions of
a soul not yet taught to dance.

when the smoke fades, she does not
hesitate. she moves, like a chess piece,

to checkmate. your move:
when there already is none left.

she says, i can't stop thinking
about you. i've got to see you.

her intensity can be mistaken for
drunkenness, her confusion for inadequacy.

she will tell you herself,
i am a woman who is deeply troubled.

the connection drops. the gloaming,
set in rough velvet, makes the voices lower,

into static on the phone. Hannah remains,
after each loss - that's how you can turn away.

the fens remember only the clicking
of her heels, an impish sound, unsteady

in rhythm, still a prayer, still that
insistent cry of more life, more life.

ii.

like Hannah, i cannot stop thinking.
God. God, i am still here, as you are

still here. and that yearning, wanting to be moved,
is all i have left, after friends, lover

after lover have been lost, after those
insistent cries. more life. more.

i am small now before you, a black dot
on the pure, starch snow, still wrestling

with the split mind state that is the condition
of my existence: i will keep losing, you, even.

but loss must be recoverable. Hannah could
give up much: a first love,

a second, a firstborn, his memory of her.

but i just want to wake up again.