“We’re the Women of ’80s B-Movies,” “Spacing Out” & “First Winter Dream” by Allison Hummel

We’re the Women of ’80s B-Movies

A “horror”       a “thriller”        and the events therein, which
transpire        among cold,         dun-colored fields:

There’s quite a bit of
someone-watching-through-a-window
but mercifully, we don’t notice.

The transgression,        unapprehended,
never happened I guess; the gray hand and
fascia of         glass.

And thank god, because we’re    exceptionally tired of
these ruptures of privacy & freedom.

We’re the women of '80s b-movies
and also of '60s,   '70s    and '90s,
of before, and after as well.

We make lunch and change         our clothes
and pee. We’re planetoids, attempting the usual orbit,

seeking out joy’s        warm    yellow thumbprint,

even after attacks in
the hayloft and the pressing down of         glottal dreams.

We are castigated by
cults, hovered over by flies-
we’re discovered by love which
collapses into         compost-

our fates arrive fast and         at once very slowly,

we’re alloted either a crawling drag & smear

or        a bounding run,          feet kicking up high,

we stream away

Spacing Out

Seems like not even the most
diaphanous new age
music

no matter how it swells
then descends

can hook us to one        another       again.

We’ve all gone so far     afield,

askance with self-
interest, distracted by
astronomy, the pitcher
is the future and

the swing batter swing
is our gnawing, incessant
inability to know.

Many large stars could graze
us. Some could even hit the

target of my open eye;

I’ll tear up accordingly
unmoved        but physical

recalling with no
particular pathos

that backyard,     that season,     our

well-intended,         gyred         connection,

honest and         pumice
and
motionless,

         like the moon

First Winter Dream

Dreamt of a friend with
        the softest face, all
        rounded inlet, blue
        islets, seal pup, sugar castle.

Shame presses me through
its grate. I come out the other side
disperse, curling

        cold butter for the promise
        of new constructions.

How can I trust myself at
25 27 28 30 - was I bright
was I cunning
was I a cannibal
can I atone? I regret
filling my vague globe with trash
as I regret       dragging the
weft of cirrus    clouds
that was

          my gift from you
          across the ground.

Dreamt of you, your
      softest face.
      You were the skim
      vernal pool your Dad
      gazed into. You were
              the color of butter.
              You left me waiting
              but not for long.

Tags: Allison hummel, corinne dodenhoff