Impossible Bottle


Hannah Rego





I don’t know if you’re a person

I can call when I am hurting but

every headache & every news reel makes me

want our eyes glued to each other, or at least

the flat sides of our eyes glued to the same paper plate.

When I feel beauty, I know you can’t feel it at the same rate.


I know when the world is ending we’re pushed

toward one (1) death or two (2) survival but I want

to believe it’s because of the language

we built from across the room.  I’m talking a little

about the illegibility of my gender & my visions

of the tiny buildings falling down, but mostly about

that line, towards the end of that

song, from the email, I played during

every shower I took for months.  If it’s all just the same,

will you say my name, say my name

in the morning      so I’ll know when

   the wave breaks.  When I think


of all the airport carpet patterns in the world,

I want to lay down in the nearest pile of mulch.

I want to eat whole lambs

with you on a yacht & laugh the whole time

because what would we be doing there?  Maybe

you wanted to watch me count ribs in public,

& piece them clean into a bottle: part-hobby,

part-message to watch the waves swallow.  Teach me

how to cut a straight line

or at least how to hold a ruler.

Let’s open all the windows in this sandcastle.








Hannah Rego is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky.  In 2016 they were awarded the Flo Gault poetry prize by Sarabande Books.  They have attended residencies through the Spalding Low-Res MFA and Sundress Publications.  Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in BOAAT, BOMB Magazine, Breakwater Review and elsewhere.  They live in Brooklyn.