Hannah Brooks-Motl

Well-Lit Sexual Encounter



His first appearance as huffing groans


I hear too much of her


In the garish curtains and glass tremendous


Imagine she looked through them toward it


Wanting or liking to want, stacking debts into the gray ziggurat


An hour accrues sympathetically


A garland of lilies stitched into fabric, they have touched


The Perspex here and here as talk stretches further


The motel makes an easy invention


Carpet grows meaningful, taking apart the song


For the sadness of pleasure, orange plush


A lot of golds in this music, spreading reddish


Orange, orange, and umber


She rolls down the mix of fabrics, such as plush


Orange plush, then flannel


In this room sound swarms unparticular and correct


Through the bust of screen window


The bed is a taste so correct in its serenade


The wallpaper of earliest morning


Awake in the death of one Sunday’s lyric


Awake with the scenery I rejoice for the day the color of field


That’s such a good line, said to one another


The pang of a few rocks outside the door kicked in


The well-litness of the lonely


Their silkish horizons and regular orbit


In the cranberry color of car light and dawning


Moods of an up-down arrangement


Or going for groceries he grabs ass in the clearing


I am grooving rose notes in this country


Music the invisible harness, position


Imagine the highways had been made of love, all the highways


And intimate townscapes


The brave edges of sex finally uncreepy


Conveyed merely the moment reviving


And merely I listened, poured myself through assumption


Posted the threnody in fair use


Watched as time it was that time widened

Goya Yoga



I found the moment in my car

next I lost it. “For the car is pierced by evil.”

In a circle of patrons, on whom might I inflict

such bright and minor status?

The everyday guarantees a certain visual diplomacy,

the river and white field above which

thorough cloudscapes hover.

I find myself outside their nuance.

There is a parallel shine to one’s conscience.

It spins its vinyl emotion.

I put the cello on the spectrum, I put my brother.

Someone worked full-time in our error.

The all-night gym is a particular fear, perhaps

the meadow.




Just for reference on May the 28th

some meteors came. Looking is like hoarding

and thus hoarding. I try to move

beyond it, elongate the star sign

into a random object: crying baby.

Thing of the chest. And then

the salmon, agog.



Much insight is nonrecurring though

I would like to forage its source,

sever the crude future

of each weather. What’s a fellow

if not in theory. His numerical ragers

to find yourself on the rooftop of, like wind

the mixer.



Where all one’s fog lives

might then be this softer institution, a kind of people

and rawly uncreative, plus repetition:

I am attached to this bracelet.

I am attached to my carriage.

I am attached to such nectar.




Satisfaction is a plain destination.

Yet disorder maintains

my reluctance to flatter.

The corn maze presents its doubled nature,

weak incidence of ataraxia, and

the watcher leaning in. I was a mild woman

who never took a salaried position.


HANNAH BROOKS-MOTL is the author of the chapbook The Montaigne Result (Song Cave, 2013) and the full-length collection The New Years (Rescue Press, 2014). Recent work has appeared in Banango Street, BAX 2014, and the Cambridge Literary Review. She currently lives in Chicago.