A Letter from Your Hand Sanitizer
You are flashing your vaccinated
face and I am pacing, staring at the clock,
wanting to pick you up early.
To be a hand that has lived is to be
exposed to humans and humans are
spilled wine. Plants that forget to drink water.
They can expel toxic perfumes into
the air simply by blinking.
They are against saving people’s lives
if they can’t see death
happening to themselves quickly.
When someone coughs,
I won’t be able to coat your hand
before you touch your fork.
If you touch your nose and eyes
after touching the fork, I will lose
my mind and I don’t even have one.
I will start leaking from the bottle
and fill myself with germs.
Please do not leave me.
I will pretend not to have
an anxiety attack. Pretend to adjust
to seeing people’s faces, without
needing to shield you from the enemy.
I have been through war with you,
opening packages and touching
the ground in your hand,
while people called you paranoid.
Please do not forget about me.
I am your cool dad
waiting to be called on.
If I keep saying this, I think
I could convince you too.
I think I could stay.
Hanna Pachman is a poet, whose work has been published by or is forthcoming in The MacGuffin, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Indolent Books, Anti-Heroin Chic, and more. Originally from Connecticut, she currently hosts a monthly poetry event, “Beatnik Cafe” in Los Angeles and was formerly an Assistant Editor for the poetry magazine, Gyroscope Review.