The Subliminal Itch
Hannah is a poet and photographer currently based in New York and Paris. She specializes in gothic surrealism and chiaroscuro. She holds a degree in English from Vassar College and her work has been published in the Vassar Review.
Poetry
Fish With a Telephone
Where to start?
Perhaps with the house, beat-up, built in 1912, now a host of squeaking radiators, Their lullabies burdening me with sleeping pills.
The first owner left a fish hanging on the brick. He told us not to kill it, to wait for it to grow up and swim or sink.
He told us it could use the telephone– Lies. It didn’t even speak. I knew it was already dead.
One night, I left the ambien in its bottle. I ran downstairs, tore the fish off the wall, wiped its blood on my blouse and threw it in the July Hudson.
My roommates must have thought I was out of my mind when they found me hitting snooze on the concrete.
But they didn’t care at all about the fish–They were worried about the telephone.
“I didn’t take it!” I pleaded,
“The fish did!”
No one believed me.
Not even the devil woman glaring back at me.
I ran back to the beach,
jumped into the water
its rocking waves of home,
the water, never still, tugging
me to its chilled grasp.
“Welcome,” The fish said.
Cold-Blooded
I cried when the candle had a meltdown, wax cracking, bleeding out yolk-yellow gold.
You boiled snow to make me spaghetti, it froze in ringlets just like the honey cloaked apple slices.
We drank warm champagne, ice cubes slithering down our tongues–Never have I understood how they float amongst the bubbles.
We fell asleep daydreaming of pythons, shed our skins on the zig-zagged linens,hibernated til January, the crack of 6 a.m. and birds ringing in the millennium,
I hated you, your luxury, your ignorance;
you never hurt a soul.
Photography and Film
A visual interpretation of the fear of blindness
Contact
Message me for collaboration opportunities, commissions, or questions!