THREE POEMS by HANNI SALATA
LETTERBOXD REVIEW IN THE FORM OF PROSE POEM
after Christopher Harris's short film, "28.IV.81 (Bedouin Spark)"On a Sunday morning, Alice asks what color I think her eyes are,
and I grasp for the right words to explain the shade of brown.
On a Monday night, I watch three silent minutes of star-shaped glitter swirling inside a bottle.
I watch the way gold flashes, fades into warm amber, and disappears into the darkest depths.
I think, last Christmas, we went out to see the lights, and they glimmered in your eyes
just like this.
PLACES TO NEVER RETURN
After Neil HilbornThe high school, because I'm not a loser
and my siblings are grown, and if my sister
has kids I can just go to their away games;
the bookstore that burnt down and was rebuilt
at least twice; the bed of Trevor's truck lmao;
the whole town, maybe, all that's left for me
is the town theatre where I kissed my first love
and the cemetery already home to half my class
(and Aly’s cat); the parish and the Church,
I think I've outgrown them both now; the beach
where I tried to drown myself; the Grand Cherokee
my grandfather used to take me on museum trips,
until he gave it to my father to use for work, until
he sold it to Aly's father; where Dave said
he loved me like another daughter as we drove
down to the river, his hand between my thighs.
YOUR FIRST LOVE BREAKS YOUR HEART FOR THE SECOND TIME
Siken was right. You kiss her. You kiss her and she doesn't move and you keep kissing her and she makes a little noise like pity. She forgives you but it's not enough and it's all too fucking much.
She stares down at you and her face is frozen like stone but her godforsaken eyes shine like lakewater and suddenly you are young all over again begging her to stay, or to take you with her when she leaves.
She pulls you into her arms and her touch has never hurt before, even when you deserved it, even when you were lain in bed begging her to hurt you, even with her hand around your throat. Now it slices in.
It's not that she doesn't love you, it could never be that simple. You love each other so much, but you are your mothers' daughters, and love has never been enough to keep you in one place very long.
Maybe now she will leave you alone.
Hanni Salata (they/them) is a Chicago-based editor, cat dad, and classically trained redneck with a closet full of half-finished crochet projects and notebooks full of half-finished poems. Their previous publications can be found at Bullshit Lit and HAD, or you can follow them on Twitter @graceandlaurels if you're into that.