Hanna Pachman
Six Feet Close
My roommate has become ill.
Must wash doorknobs and faucets,
lay down in room, replay
eight-month-old break-up.
Try to get out of bed without tears.
Must preserve tissues and toilet paper.
The sound of coughing
makes me anxious,
as I feel the liquid fossilize
into my upper back.
I try to get words out of me
pushing against five stacks of books
while shouting hello to strangers.
My head is spinning towards everyone
who makes eye contact with me,
wondering if they have the light
of a cozy apartment to walk in and out of,
to sip tea in with the simplicity
of the open trees and moving books.
I digest the gaping news of death,
wondering how I could talk to people
without scaring them away.
Take a ten-minute dance break from work
to bake cookies from childhood,
walk outside in pajamas with no bra,
feel the space within the space of my hips.
Declutter the grim reaper
from my head, as blank roads of houses
become actual people.
Feeling my shoulders relax
inward and outward,
I sway through the in-between
world of unleashing and manic.
—Submitted on 10/06/2020
Hanna Pachman‘s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Oddball Magazine, and Aberration Labyrinth. Originally from Connecticut, she lives in Los Angeles, where she hosts a monthly poetry event, “Beatnik Cafe,” and is an assistant editor for the poetry magazine, Gyroscope Review.
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