Allison Hummel

Otto, Otto everywhere.
That was how I felt
for a while, biting into wax
fruit, crafting
crusades in miniature,

many pastoral
hills to die on.

Otto cuts some meat with a knife.
Otto and that unspeakably
tactile sound.

Otto and that exquisitely

Otto and did you know that
bone china is made of bone?
It’s true, though.

Unlike almost all things
one might encounter
in leonine
Los Angeles

I miss you, playing
your bones like flutes. You were very
wrapped up in your brilliance.
Some perversion of a Tesla Coil.
I guess this is a love poem.

Now I listen to gamelan.
And I revisit the Zurburans
at the museum. All those

all lashed up,

longing is just
loneliness in translation


about the writer


Allison Hummel is based in Los Angeles. Her work has recently appeared in the Cabildo Quarterly, A Glimpse Of, and Voicemail Poems, and is forthcoming from Anatolios Magazine and Decentre.