Freak Weather

By: Harrison Hamm

Lightning licked the steeple black
and the horses ran—
like breakaway wind, the horses
were horses—and gone—
and God,
I felt just like you

always on your left knee, begging for blessings
in the middle of every wall-talking room—You
the one with a calling
that is, called to the prison yard. Like a magician:
Now he’s in the cave.
Now he’s not.


Flooded tunnels. Bungalows on re.
In the faceless whip-drip of power lines, this skyfall
in shards, relentlessly down—

Why do we sing ourselves into broken syllables?

Requisite thunder—
That diesel Man machine of pitch-screeching
night— night after night,
and I ran too

heart-first into empty fields—

The unfolded sky,
tenebrous and ours—

No moon.
Freak weather.


Harrison Hamm is a poet, screenwriter, and essayist originally from rural Tennessee, now based in Los Angeles. A 2023 Filmmaker's Workshop Fellow with New York Stage and Film, a 2022 Fellow in Diverso's The Minority Report, and a multi-grant recipient at his alma mater Loyola Marymount University, Harrison develops creative work and scholarship with a commitment to healing and surviving on the margins. Queer, Autistic, mixed-race, devoutly irreligious and otherwise monstrous, Harrison explores themes of grief, violence, faith, and the erotic, often turning to dreamlike and macabre aesthetics to articulate what usually stays caged inside.

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