Hanna Andrews

On the equivalence of matter and energy
You will approach zero & then be propelled. For now, seven inches of light through
the blindgap, a few feet to the bathroom, four years behind the beckon perfumed &
half-living in the kitchen. She will make breakfast, she will calculate the degree of mouth
corner turned down, her eyes will pool over your bones: depletion. A few hours until
the next sleeploop. She will incubate—you tiny robin’s egg, you resting pilot light.
Movement—a navigation of three small rooms, a discrete association between bodies.
Let it be known that she is already fevered inside, therefore, is driven. Let it be known
she is the arrowhead, arrow-heart. She suffers the kinetic itch & you know it.



& in the beginning I chased after nothing; everything in my path hung low
from colored ribbons, blinking wild & begging a pocketing. My dreams were
teenaged: social theatrics melting fast to the carpool alarm. I lived in & with
things, surrounded plush—array of stuffed elephants lined up under sheets.

In the year of the guessing game, I held hands with my constant ghost, turned
indignant from plans pre-emptive. What wonder ever came from refusing to be
wild-haired, sticking to the home realm, untraveled? I followed you saturated &
swathed; we twinned toward interlocking circulation. I followed you until we
were both invisible.

            [ Our eyes can never see enough to be satisfied; what has been done
            before will be done again. ]

                                    Sever the light beam; put it on paper. Fifty pages of
uncoiling the mindstretch past the possible. I have no heart but a document.