what flows thicker than water
by alyssa hanna
what flows thicker than water
today i decided i would never snort cocaine because i am already addicted
to feeling my back arch into a syrup silence, i am already pleased
by pain. giving in to ocean, clamming shut, i suck in sulfur and ask air
when it will all be over. reeling like a fishing line. acid reflux into an ice bucket.
and i am not finished. there is no finishing this, no ending
to the story that is siphoning soliloquies out of martini glasses.
i heard only one account of my father; after his one night stand with my mother
he asked if he could be my dad. when she said no, he sent a friend to sign my birth certificate instead.
my theory is he was finishing a six pack. fast forward to a blotchy man telling me
just say no. addiction runs in the blood.
i sliced my veins open to see what was trickling inside;
this is a wound i will always let fester.
on the throgs neck bridge i see a sign that says "life is worth living"
by alyssa hanna
on the throgs neck bridge i see a sign that says “life is worth living”
and i remember how easy it is to die.
the jump, fall, push, the tiny press
into the membrane covering the back
of a newborn’s head— yet i have still not
succeeded in breaking
the most fragile of organisms.
a tiger will eat her young, the bird throws
his babies from the windowsill,
but my father still pays my e-z pass bills;
will they charge him a toll and tow should i pull
into the emergency lane and cross
over? even when she eats her newborns, the mother
will still mourn.
on the bridge between bronx and brooklyn, the sign
mocks. it’s a starling screeching hope
that no one wants to hear, the language of
birds unable to be deciphered. it’s a pack
of cigarettes a day begging someone
to voice the concern of how much cancer
will cost their children. it’s
the winter that frosts veins over, pulls
bank accounts dry, pulls wine from the shelves
after seven years sober.
on the throgs neck bridge there is a sign that tells me it’s not my time to die
but i’m not sure i’m convinced. i have hammered out brass, support
beams, and i have done all but coil
up and eat myself starting tail
end, portrait of a python swallowing herself
when all other options are wasted.
all other options have legs.
all other options can breathe through their nose.
in dead traffic i open my car door;
the sign says: jump—
out of spite.
alyssa hanna
alyssa hanna graduated from Purchase College in 2016. Her poems have appeared or are upcoming in Reed Magazine, The Naugatuck River Review, Rust + Moth, Pidgeonholes, and others. She was nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize, a finalist in the 2017 James Wright Poetry Competition, and a semi-finalist for The Hellebore scholarship. alyssa is a Contributing Editor at Barren Magazine and an aquarium technician in Westchester, living with her four weird lizards. follow her @alyssawaking on twitter, instagram, ko-fi, and patreon.