Hannah Brooks-Motl

Happy Drunk

In the drinking I believed we saw things

A figure as one condition of patience and—inebriate—she was

Or this made me think why anything begins or ends
Of invasive evening

Both accumulation and escape: when she concludes this in the kitchen is she somewhere

The kitchen as conclusion OK does this consume me

Having here spoil, desire, and recomposition—

Do I grow older and my titties sag?

I think both variously and observant, attempt the tiny slosh
Of the naturalist

It is simple she dreams

To slip beyond the man-made lake

There is no other locale, no different noun walking home

In the apartment I’m making roast
Of my spirit


For certain longing and feelings he has action, then sadness

The tumble-around very green

In the most quasi-historical sense one suffers a true capacity for change, is element and of the

When I am in the country; when I requite the country

When I describe the high old color enjoying its drip of liquor, lover, moon

Distance he said velvets the grid and velvet she perceived quite profoundly

It’s so individual

As one’s birthday is a rational event, unlike true gratitude


In the drinking I believed things
Certain looks received in honor of the violet there, then the cursive
On a desk you are writing, won’t you
Middle of summer I mean, torso of life


The ancient way kept complexity from hands
A relative statement
Like how gladly I go to my beer tonight
Or perhaps the system’s torn tissue begat the rural quiet
Narrow on the narrow page

Mother’s garden can’t carry weeping—that is design

The singular lovable rain in which a baby’s new voice is sailing
Not-a-worker, not a non-desirer

All choices were bad, it was how we knew nations
Rolling through us
They came up
They departed


Start with one woman but add them

Air above the bed more personal than storms

For a shaming style creates the kitchen

An arrogant speech act rarely performed in code or clean gorgeousness

We all contain small skies

The nothing sexual in a boyfriend’s sadness

She managed to enter history and yet, and yet

There are vitalities the world refuses to elaborate, varietals of anger, Augusts—to be up late
loving he provoked and then rebuked, this was “the whole mind”

Its many critiques plus an inward effect

Similarly kinds of birds, clouds and soil, does the internet exist or the way in which glaciers,
finance, and simple physics work

A kind of thinking, at myself


They remember nothing he confided, so we forego these atmospheres of plenty

Perhaps the song of her is blight


Next-door the distance tumbles

Capable and suffering the rational envy, in the anthology they were a certain part

And night a type of portrait, unlike true mist

The deep longing liquor
Of all earthworks


Mother’s not a me-worker, it’s how she scraggles
And cabins her language

Such occupation keeps life ancient
The farm or nation, the middle of violence
Relating right through some complex of garden, some departure

One’s relatives singing

How gladly to choose the bad husband
Unchoose him

And descend on your cursive, a mere sense
Of the singular hand
You’ve gone to drink with


Clouds are always personal, their speech just one variety of soil

You know inwardness is the obvious illustration, but add shame
And suddenly a woman is vital with sadness

The glacier cleaned by fear, a whole mind

Just furious physics
Liking small effects, rueful adding

The internet of critique and of variety in the globos—

I drink to birds, those babes
Of new voice and weeping


Remember the year, its lost grandeur
And salads

I remember nothing, they confided and their freedom ran tacit, then heaving

As the bloom entered history—gorgeous, arrogant, and vital


I include dinner in the poem cuz of hunger
Cuz of dirt and class longings


Location isn’t generous but a conventional totem
A different spirit, no favorite way to live
But only inside this


He was a figure
She was


Desire is an OK conclusion


Alex Niemi translates from the French, Spanish and Russian and writes poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dusie, Buenos Aires Review, Iowa Literaria and the anthology Devouring the Green: Fear of a Transhuman Planet.