the meatgirl whatever

The poems in Kristin Hatch’s debut collection ooze with the viscus of shattered reality. Bodily, almost animalistic, they flirt with apocalypse, accumulate like diary entries from a madman’s kitchen where knife blades hover near the jugular. “This is a documentary,” writes K. Silem Mohammad, who selected this book for the National Poetry Series, “or these poems are promotional cartoon avatars, installations of a longer, live-action Emmy-winning series in which glee and melancholy, revulsion and beauty, lyric and satire, living flesh and chopped-up meat combine in sinister gurlesque fantasia.” A terrifying and necessary first book.

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Selected by

K. Silem Mohammad

publisher

Fence

pages

88


THE MEATGIRL WHATEVER

if you were a thunderwhip harp sound
i could play just by thinking about bridges
& if you could see swamps through the windows in your feet
or if you kept little trees pruned like donkeys, monsters
in your lungs just for me, pets
–if you were an angle i made with fluorescent math
or maybe if your hair smelled like oak tree leaves
& your words always weighed a penny in my hand,
your beard was just felt, or
if you could give me a shatterproof body made of pearl inlay,
like if I was a gun
(am I a gun) a beautiful gun
& if your eyes were compasses that said to me to the sandcastle city
or if you think this poem is too violent
& when we crash or rot slow or if there is a shush
sometime & if we could (your neck is a doric thing)

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