Hanna Pachman
Try Not to Kiss Strangers
A rug smears across the heart,
as I watch a bare faced man
smirk at me, with devilish eyes.
The news is imminent,
you are not allowed to cough
without having a tissue on hand.
My eyes shift to my innocence
not prevailing through this hourglass
where colors of light are
nourished by smoke.
I must accept that I won’t accomplish
kissing him tonight.
A deep hole empties my stomach
as I get lost in a white wall of silence,
staring at my overly sanitized hands.
I stand on my hand to stretch,
remembering that the mat
will be pulled out from beneath
me at any moment.
I hold tightly onto my mask,
as the wind walks me outside.
I will watch him on the street,
paused at that corner by the stop sign,
until there are enough hospital beds
for the world to bathe in,
until the day I could clean my house
without being afraid to die.
But once the world is vaccinated,
I will run to the stop sign,
get down on one knee
and beg for him to kiss me.
—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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