Han Hamid


a copper droplet
clinks, sinks in my
pocket with the lint 
of my inverted 
hands hugging
the slips of my
and my coins
make merry—
i was born in england
but raised by 
so when i cup
my hands to breathe,
draw deep the
air of my 
warming palms,
all i smell
is money 

like a burst corpse in a juice-sodden rug down a marshy hill / hastening / spraying my flayed bark into dank soil where i might take root and grow / where the voles snigger at the feral gods they fazed in last night’s hunt / tonight / we feast / on earthworms / spiders / coke cans / and rotting copies of delicious smut
picture / the splash / my dampened ash / the holes / picture the crescent moon of my body / the lunar blush of my skin / its crooked frown / mouth splayed with final thoughts / eyes untethered / yet somehow / watching / picture me sideways / sinking / wrists twisting / chest breaching / arms flailing like i’m calling you 


Han Hamid (he / him) is a poet, writer, herbivore, and collector of running injuries. He’s based in London, England.

Twitter: @HanWritesWords