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