THE BEST WAY TO CONTAIN HEAT IS TO KEEP YOUR HEAD

warm, wear hats and knit new ones.

I want to put my hands everywhere,

on the kitchen counter cut with stripes of sun,

on the dust mites, secret dancers, on my friend,

on a shivering cup, round and blue with liquid motion—

No, it is important to be specific.

My weak eyes and the light make a quiet

vibration called periwinkle. Specifically,

the coffee is cold.

Round breaks in ice: water

spouts through.

Rain boots in winter,

floral in the walk.

For my dearest somebodies,

I build a tower

of clementine peels,

the orange and fresh

electric brightness

released into the air like dew.

At night, I pull noodles

into my mouth like worms,

chew quick before they come alive on my tongue. 

The grit underneath my thumbnails feels true.

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Hannah Nahar is a queer Jewish writer and human based in Boston. Their work can be found in Up the Staircase Quarterly, Sixpenny, Palooka, and Dressing Room Poetry Journal, among other places. They like being quiet and being loud.