South Star

By: Harrison Hamm

By the claws of underbrush, I can tell
where we are. Stumbling unaware of the IV drip
let out. This scape of stalks and black glass, pulsing overhead
in a veiny, god-sized heart.

Like a star.

It’s not so hard to believe that you’re here,
so much as that
You’re here.

And I am trying to follow you—
you who tells me
where I was born
where I will be born again

gifted unto claws . . .

In a dream, your light appears in fingers
unbuttoning the lawn-stained jeans.
The belt loops itself around the nearest planet
—an eye—with lips—superimposed—bourbon starlight—

You pull me from the nauseated garnet swells
against the paddleboat. Frogs glow in the un-dark.

a train whistles.

And for some reason, I think it’s a punishment
until I am on the bed again
in the real quartz of the room.

There is still time. There is still time.

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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