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Christine Hamm's Blog

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Nov.02.2009
The Unborn Tentative, mucky, very wet, very red, their fingers grab our dangling earrings in our dreams of drowning. Wailing like distant wars, like distant animal ambulances, they paw through our sock drawers, our stacks of photographs. Sticky, miniature-thumbed, reeking of rose talc and rancid...
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Oct.25.2009
Birds Clearly Don't Understand Glass we wouldn't admit it, but in your pocket slept three baby grackles and a large blacksnake as you stood near the winter swimming pool, like a little mother, but with fur, a lightweight skeleton, hollow bones, the age-old bell on the collar, your large palms...
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Oct.14.2009
My therapist tells me we have to work on "my problem with biting." 1) I wish I could tell you the truth about this; my jaw has been wired shut more than once. My boyfriend is bruised and a little embarrassed. My front tooth is loose and it hurts when I drinkmy tea. The sheets are in the...
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Oct.09.2009
White Shirts While you sleep, I watch a movie. A man bangs his head against a shelf in a library. It's the magazine section: I can almost tell the year of the movie from the magazine titles. I love the image of white shirts hanging on a clothesline, as long as it's not in my backyard. He picks...
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Oct.02.2009
Neighbors The boy two doors down likes to bite, too, but his mother makes him eat soap after, and so through the summer-propped windows we hear their struggles in the bathroom, his shrieks as she grabs his mouth, the slipping as he knocks the bright yellow lozenge from her hand, and then sobs for...
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Sep.23.2009
See me perform! Kinda purplish with bad hair. Also, what do I keep doing with my mouth? Roll tape.
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Sep.12.2009
Tender Four Dos Equis and his voice a plastic radio skipping between station and static, my new friend lays his hand on my shoulder, his arm as heavy as the whole weight of his scarred white body. Our small table smells of moldy towel; he's telling me he likes being beaten, that he's never told...
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Aug.24.2009
Big Black Dog Head like a gunboat. Blue eyes: stars constantly receding. Breath of rotten Pontiacs, half-buried in the backyard. Follows me to the dinner party, insists on my lap. He savages the chicken, the sweet potato. No one clucks or looks away. The short woman next to us, with a sound like...
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Jul.13.2009
a happy (er) poem and pic from the state fair Your Tenth Birthday clamor, bells, ringing that sounds like the radio's voice, awakened from your nap by your own light, your flesh glows a little, you leave traces on the curtains when you sigh; outside in the warm evening streets, people leave their...
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Jul.08.2009
Idaho, 1972 A fly the size of a diamond ring lays eggs in the bay mare's wounds, deep red holes near her withers. The horse flicks (right, left, left) her velvet pocketbook ears, nibbles the yellow stubble smearing the roots of the dogwood; the dogwood's scars are closing over our names. If you...
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Jun.20.2009
Ideas for new covers. (All previous were rejected.) A) Roman Numeral V) 16a) You know the drill. Please vote please please.
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Jun.11.2009
Hannah and the Ill-fitting Wig Hannah has dirty hair, I tell you through the open window. She is a dirty blonde. You shake your head at me, pushing your shopping cart as your yellow lab trudges ahead, his heavy belly bobbing from side to side. You start to sing about the flag again, adjusting...
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Jun.06.2009
Sometimes I feel Nostalgia for Places I was Miserable Everyone operates out of fear. With her hands, she opens up a hole in the earth near the roots of the big maple. She lays a silent bluebird in the hole, pats it. In the movie version, she places a dried geranium over the bird's eye -- its head...
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May.18.2009
The Cold The virus traveled to her blood after her fingertips brushed the hem of his coat, he was leaving again in the middle of the night, the baby crying, the heat turned off a week ago – she had collected matches, tried to empty the throat of the fireplace, tried to take out the bricks...
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May.09.2009
since I finished a draft of a poem. I moved to Brooklyn, got frantic with renovations, and had no web access. Here it is: Finally, a new poem in the dry desert of nonpoetry Learn the Language of Your Meat Go into the weeds. Find the cow lying there, open her mouth. Take out her small voice, stuff...
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