Notes on Family
Poems by Hannah Langer
Poems by Hannah Langer
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AcknowledgementsThank you to my family:
The biological whose blood runs with mine,
The chosen whose smiles mirror mine,
And the family of authors whose writing influences mine.
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ContentsMy Grandfather's Chair
Words for my Parents
Notes on Family
Göttingen in Snow
Portrait of Laika as a Rising Sun
My Grandfather’s Chair
I knew him once
By rainbow veins,
Snaking like oil spills
Beneath spotted brown skin.
By his booming laugh
So loud it could bring rain,
By his broad grin,
Wide across his face
Like a fissure across dry New Mexico soil.
By clear tubes,
Rivers of oxygen flowing to
His hairy nostrils
That made my brother and I tremble
When we heard him wheeze
Like Darth Vader.
Now I know him
Through his chair,
Brown and worn
At the arms,
Sagging deeply
Towards earth,
Leather cracking
Like wrinkled palms,
I knew him once
By rainbow veins,
Snaking like oil spills
Beneath spotted brown skin.
By his booming laugh
So loud it could bring rain,
By his broad grin,
Wide across his face
Like a fissure across dry New Mexico soil.
By clear tubes,
Rivers of oxygen flowing to
His hairy nostrils
That made my brother and I tremble
When we heard him wheeze
Like Darth Vader.
Now I know him
Through his chair,
Brown and worn
At the arms,
Sagging deeply
Towards earth,
Leather cracking
Like wrinkled palms,
Seat creased
In the middle
Like an ever-prevailing valley,
As if he is sitting there
To this day,
Reaching out with both hands,
Veins, grin, oxygen tubes,
And softness in his eyes.
In the middle
Like an ever-prevailing valley,
As if he is sitting there
To this day,
Reaching out with both hands,
Veins, grin, oxygen tubes,
And softness in his eyes.
Words for my Parents
My mother, who once held me in her hand,
Will one day shrivel up and waste away,
Forget the things that she once saw as grand,
And leave me smoking, ashes in a tray.
My father? He's already counting days.
He ponders liver failure, heart attack,
Even the chance of burning up in blaze.
My mother and I laugh, lips dripping black.
I think of mouths I’ve kissed and hands I’ve touched,
And every unique face burned on my eyes.
I hold these pictures tightly, keep them clutched,
Although I know it’s all a futile guise.
For one day, we will lose the chance to speak,
To whisper words, or chant, or sing, or pray,
And all the things that we have been too meek
To say will tumble out of reach, away.
My mother I will hold, my father too,
And tell them all the words I’ve wanted to.
My mother, who once held me in her hand,
Will one day shrivel up and waste away,
Forget the things that she once saw as grand,
And leave me smoking, ashes in a tray.
My father? He's already counting days.
He ponders liver failure, heart attack,
Even the chance of burning up in blaze.
My mother and I laugh, lips dripping black.
I think of mouths I’ve kissed and hands I’ve touched,
And every unique face burned on my eyes.
I hold these pictures tightly, keep them clutched,
Although I know it’s all a futile guise.
For one day, we will lose the chance to speak,
To whisper words, or chant, or sing, or pray,
And all the things that we have been too meek
To say will tumble out of reach, away.
My mother I will hold, my father too,
And tell them all the words I’ve wanted to.
Notes on Family
They asked me to describe those I choose to be near
(They like the way my eyes work),
So I wrote it out and sealed it with spit:
1.
The comfort of voice
Speeding through flaming red lips,
Blossoms falling through the gaps in her teeth.
She holds my chin aloft with bitten nails,
Is obsessed with time, and tells me when it fails.
2.
The car rattling with bass,
Keychain clattering with keys.
He sits, poised, with ragtag hair
And glittering blue eyes,
Pants patched under paint-soaked palms.
3.
She’d kiss the moon if she could,
The Queen of Space,
Eyes misty with the distance of light-years.
She writes without an ounce of pride,
Through rainy streets we stride.
Together we make a perfect quartet, don’t you think?
Sometimes I wonder if family ties come this close;
Could be closer if I tried.
They asked me to describe those I choose to be near
(They like the way my eyes work),
So I wrote it out and sealed it with spit:
1.
The comfort of voice
Speeding through flaming red lips,
Blossoms falling through the gaps in her teeth.
She holds my chin aloft with bitten nails,
Is obsessed with time, and tells me when it fails.
2.
The car rattling with bass,
Keychain clattering with keys.
He sits, poised, with ragtag hair
And glittering blue eyes,
Pants patched under paint-soaked palms.
3.
She’d kiss the moon if she could,
The Queen of Space,
Eyes misty with the distance of light-years.
She writes without an ounce of pride,
Through rainy streets we stride.
Together we make a perfect quartet, don’t you think?
Sometimes I wonder if family ties come this close;
Could be closer if I tried.
Göttingen in Snow
Whirls of snow softly snaking
We whisper soundlessly
Words whisked away, muffled moments
The gentle night cozily fills our chests
Ribbons of smoke lazily swirl
This moment: Lasts always someplace.
This love: Looks forever in its face,
And embraces.
Whirls of snow softly snaking
We whisper soundlessly
Words whisked away, muffled moments
The gentle night cozily fills our chests
Ribbons of smoke lazily swirl
This moment: Lasts always someplace.
This love: Looks forever in its face,
And embraces.