Speak for yourself.

Bet on your own naked wanting,

which is also a losing dog.

Who are you to say I ever lived

a half-life? Like copacetic

isotopes of love.

What a waste of clean pain.

Oh well,

almost green with aliveness choosing

to say nothing over forgiveness.

Light falls over

an empty house like

you have ever been truthful.

What were you hoping for?

The Dogwood lights

easy as a lie.

What a goddamn shame.

You are nightless at heart,

a murmur of a lover

and also the rain.


And also the rain.


Hannah Cook

Hannah Cook is a 24-year-old poet, certified forklift driver, & rat girl. She loves reading, writing, crawling in your walls, and lying about innocuous things for fun. She received her BFA in Interdisciplinary Studies from Boise State University and is pursuing her MFA in Poetry at the University of Minnesota in the fall of 2024. Her poetry concerns itself deeply with matters of desire, love, sex, self-annihilation, generational trauma, identity, and domestic abuse. While spilling recklessly with love and tenderness, her poems also speak to an unbearable, unavoidable thread of loneliness and grief as a condition of desire. Hannah rages, shamelessly, planting milkweed for the company of the final monarchs. Hannah loves, hauntingly, gathering yarrow for the lost.

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