Hanna Pachman: California Poets Part 7, Three Poems

Hanna Pachman

July 1st, 2024

California Poets: Part VII

Hanna Pachman

Three Poems

Saying I Love You

It happened after we did acid together,

after we had sex on a boulder, when the sky

was a dark blue and I walked into your sweatshirt.

Could I touch your hair? 

I told you secrets about how the sky

was only pretending to give light.

You told me that your father

cheated on your mom

when you were young.

I also write poems.

The wind started to intrude, and I cocooned

your body. The ceiling of the tent caved

in with each whistle of air, our faces

barely pressed with fabric.

We squeezed out of the dark,

into the crepuscular light

and tucked ourselves into

the shadow of a rock.

In your eyes I could see the future,

all the Boggle we would play,

the made-up language,

the trip to the beach in our pajamas.

The next morning, it came to me like

all the music in the world

asking to be replayed, walking slowly. I love you.

When My Husband Fell Off a Mountain, A Cop Called Me Beautiful

Inspired by Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave 

I climbed a mountain. My phone translates this

as the same amount of steps it takes to kill.

There is proof that I am guilty but we can pretend.  

He records me burying a crow and takes photos

of me entering the house.

There is no sex or violence, just people

pretending to be smart phones.

Being followed by a cop puts you in danger

of never being forgotten, unless you seduce him

enough to burry the evidence.  

How fancy can my meal be in the interrogation room?

We get so close to longing, knowing that life is temporary.

Like a ghost waiting to hound me for killing,

the sand, the mountain gets smaller while the sun

watches us go down. 

Swacked, Paralyzed and Screwed

Draw a blank so a man could

fill you in and call it love.

The yellow light is approaching.

We could either need each other

or be the same as each other.

I forgive you for trying.

Why am I lonely?

Why am I looking at a computer?

A certain fog becomes more visible as you

walk further away from time.

I am trying to sound philosophical

enough to be preserved.

The dictionary could only speak so

beautifully until what. Until then what.

That moment when the cars are passing by.

I am either crossing the street or in a cloud.

What would you do if you saw a dying bird

on the street, fluttering one wing up and down.

This world is certainly something.

Am I moving enough to change your mind?

Author Bio:

Hanna Pachman is a poet, whose work has been published by Rattle, Catamaran, Maudlin House, The MacGuffin, and others. She hosts and curates a poetry event which has been running since 2018. Hanna was an Assistant Editor for the poetry magazine, Gyroscope Review, for two years. She is currently attending UCR for an MFA in Creative Writing.