New Poetry by Hanna Harris

Transusbstantiation

He's hard to come by like

Charles Manson on sandpaper,

palms squeaking against leather.

I don't think he has much of

a mind these days, only

laughing at blank white walls, only

tracing door frames.

He makes me look at doors like

a threat.

Take your stomach, tie it

in a knot, maybe squeeze it to feel

it in between his fingers;

and he says he ain't talented.

When he leaves a room, everyone

is silent for a moment,

unsettled as house pets

before a storm

and you can't help but love him

like sticking your fingers in

an outlet.

It's a curiosity that melts your fingers,

leaving behind an emptiness you

can feel on your skin.

He's hungry, carnivorous, that

type of gnashing starvation

that makes people think about

TRANSUBSTANTIATION

and consequences.

I swear there's a deadness in

his limbs and it's contagious.

It says, "Keep shaving, drag the

razor until there's nothing left of you.”

It's contagious, disguised as

liberation pulsing in your chest

and trust me, you'll catch it too.

- Hanna Harris 2015

Hanna Harris is a 17-year-old, Los Angeles based slam poet and student. She works for Persephone's Daughters Magazine and lives with her cat, Leo.