Hannah Larrabee lives in two worlds, and the only thing that seems to follow is her writing. By day she works in radio, by night she teaches writing, and in between there is always writing and the reading of writing. She considers herself tremendously lucky to have spent several years learning from Charles Simic, to have completed an MFA in creative writing, to have engaged in two fields of work that keep her going, and to have found one person who happens to be the subject of quite a few love poems. She’s also a newshound and a fan of pre-prohibition drinks, and conversations that involve both of those things.
From the Surface
December 7, 2011 NASA reports: “solar winds
are blowing away the moon’s topsoil.”
The moon can’t keep hold of its skin.
Swept away, rough particles into space
blown from the palm.
I always look for a face:
moon craters, the heavy shadow
to draw lips, never use lines.
Talk to me on the floor
one hand on my knee
tracing the solid line of my jaw.
“I read something today,”
I will begin, and you will listen
always while looking.
When there isn’t any sign of you
I plunge into burning,
a signal flare beside the road.
Late night, tire wrench, metal
slow pull of your hands
no where to go.