He holds a lantern at the end of her
driveway. I wouldn’t say lost so much as
condemned and disoriented.
Susie DeFord speaks with poet Kimiko Hahn about her new book, Toxic Flora, which repurposes facts from the New York Times Science section to create striking verse that probes feminist ethos, aging, and the mother-daughter dynamic.
Big Feathered Hats
worn by women a century ago
Since Victor Frankenstein first conjured the monster that assumed his surname in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, his harrowing creation has assumed countless incarnations.
“You don’t have to understand something for it to be a pleasure.” Kimiko Hahn
I nestle with my daughter in her bed in the room painted pink nearly a dozen years ago; half the pink now covered with magazine clippings of this or that star, male and female. Her reading light spots a book in my hands.
In Kimiko Hahn’s latest collection of poems, Mosquito and Ant, she entreats us to follow her through a labyrinthine self-analysis.
I advise a promising student not to settle for flower when hibiscus is more precise.
Sigrid Nunez and Kimiko Hahn reflect upon Nunez’s novel A Feather on the Breath of God, discussing the concepts of woman as storyteller, and writing as crochet.
I am four. It is a summer midafternoon, my nap finished. I cannot find her. I hear the water in the bathroom. Not from the faucet but occasional splashes. I hear something like the bar of soap fall in. I cannot find her.
Paints are ineffective against heat emission, the principal sources of thermal infra-red signals.
—The History of Camouflage, Guy Hartcup, p. 145.
In Nicaragua / old women / mobilize with sticks and boiling water / again.
The seam was gray as a recollection— / I mean, as that recollection / (even in my motel room)