Two Poems
Poetry by Hannah Siden
NOTHING TO BE DONE
It’s year 4 of my illness & my brain is on a diet
of Sabrina Carpenter songs & bad sleep.
Like Coca-Cola Zero — fizzy air with that same
jittery aftertaste. My beta blocker gives me
nightmares that I combat by singing pop songs
to my cat, who tolerates me. One night
I dream I’m captive in a nearly empty house.
One of those big LA houses that are eerily neutral
like spaceships. Unused countertops & big windows.
Devoid of furniture. In the basement, where
I’m not supposed to go, floor to ceiling glass
displays an ocean view from inside the ocean.
Like an aquarium, except I know in my gut
there are no walls on the other side, only water.
There are sea turtles. In my dreams there are
so often sea turtles. One comes up to the window
& looks at me & in that moment I see everything
I ever wanted & more. Then there’s a man upstairs
calling me. I can picture his boots & legs &
torso & how he coils like a creature ready to strike
but I can’t picture his face. Like I’ve always
been looking down whenever I meet him. Like
a scared dog, cornered & shrinking. I pull away
from the ocean view & the sea turtle & I don’t
remember what happens after that but I’m sure
it doesn’t end happily. The night after
I’m in the passenger seat of a car & the driver
is asleep at the wheel & I’m screaming at him
as we run people over. Nothing to be done.
A tidy theme, I guess. Powerlessness. Then
in a nice karmic touch I’m crushed by an airplane.
A vivid view as it spirals downwards
& a visceral realization. Nothing to be done.
I wake at 3 am & consider calling my parents
or Johnny before remembering I’m 31 years old
& 31-year-olds deal with their own nightmares.
I turn on my phone flashlight & look for Lil
Monster, who has her nose tucked into her belly
which rises & falls so I sit with her & we breathe.
In & out & in & out. & now: I’m writing this
while listening to Espresso & trying to think
carefree thoughts of beaches & sunburns & sea
turtles but it’s 2 am & look how long this poem is
because I don’t want to go to bed. What’s
the metaphor tonight, dear beta blocker brain?
I know the punchline & I’m sick of it. I suppose
there’s nothing to be done.
WISH YOU WERE HERE
The colour of Palm Springs sounds
Lovely, right about now you said
I could just murder some powdery turquoise
Some flush pink, just a hint of skin
Oh!
I said:
I like the clean, soft strokes of your
Bathing suit the buildings the water that
David Hockney crash when I
Jump into the light lines making them
Scatter
Across the pool follow them
Deep until I’m not thinking anymore until my sins are
Washed away like
Biblically but with a side of
Sex and maybe
A cherry on top I want to taste
The water through my pores
Be sanitized by the sun
Dig my toenails into the hot concrete scratchhh
The record skips my fingers tip on yours keep dreaming you said
Keep dreaming