Dennis Hinrichsen
Green Linden Press has published two full-length collections and one chapbook by Dennis Hinrichsen. For schema geometrica, he was the inaugural recipient of the Wishing Jewel Prize. Here are two poems from Dominion + Selected Poems, forthcoming 2024.
[questionnaire] [RE: DIVORCE]
1. WHAT DID YOU FEEL?
an erasure and undressing—how she hid her body those last months—
slept on a shelf other side of the bed as I turned in what was left
of my maleness—strange possum coiled in a pail of sleep—a reduction
to pink flesh—genital wisp of nether hair
2. WHAT DID YOU REALLY FEEL?
lip (no pheromones)—nipple (non-electric)—an inertness—as of
earth turned over (in burial) (with little presence coming through)
3. BETWEEN WAKING AND NOT WAKING WHICH WAS THE BETTER GOD?
how each insect moment founded new circadian—an unending
insomniac nociception—extreme heat (in the brain) felt as acute
pain (in the body) (the child between us in reverse osmosis) (split-
faced) (but still genetic) (in a split-tongued mirror)
4. WHAT FORM DID THE PAIN REALLY TAKE?
a de-erotic emasculation—deep arctic radio death
song—iceberg melting—pieces of shell in a heap still attached to lung—
it was ok—there was breathing inside the bluing break point sucking—
beyond the apnea—spasm of larynx—slow ride (watery smoke)
of consciousness speaking zero water drowning
5. WAS THERE ANY SPIRIT IN IT?
stillness at first—each dream a kill site—animal bone—lithic debris—
then shards—many shards—sense spectrums flashing pinpoint data—brain stem
streaked—
aurora-ed—and stained—with god junk
6. WHAT DID MORNING OFFER THEN?
tricks—perceptual tricks—shack of body bladed—a boxed breathing con-
tortionist—I saw that once—an Indiana carnival midway—
the call-back (I was called back) a freakish yogic waking (I was
waking) (walking) (carnal… still )—body bright beneath egg sac sun
[lyricism] [LOUIE LOUIE ME GOTTA GO NOW]
(Lewy Body Dementia) (Spy Pond, Arlington, MA)
O disaggregated oligomers of many cellular proteins
I am talking to a friend right now thinking words must dance
on those last remaining
sheets of comprehension
the way this light rain stipples the surface of the pond—
his thoughts little rings that begin
in isolation—
then fan out and
die—the
lyrics that once bound with exquisite specificity
to our boy-child minds
reduced to chorus—broken
down creole—
he feels like oracle now—
so I pose questions—Do you fear Death?—No—
Is Sadness
truly immeasurable?—
he says
there is a Vastness coming—as if he had already done that calc—
that is—killing
himself
(he’d need help—we’d knocked oars—I said that I would do it)
(or just keep visiting in that long crawl
of diminishment)—which he is calling now a relief—
therefore this—
bruised
water—where purple is
⚡︎⚡︎
seconds later he calls me rude half-jokingly—
I’ve been too chippy
with him—too upbeat—
an accelerant
because I cuss too much so there is fire
I may be unleashing—
some small piece of residual
male
anger launched out of the circuits
like electricity
gone wrong—he tells me he wants to paint fuck you all
in the trees—so I have to rein him in—
stem our tongues with rotted greens—
burnt edges—
the awful dynamics of falling
down—
gently remembering
not much of anything I nevertheless color red
⚡︎⚡︎
I color us wasted now—we had the privilege
but not the power
or used what power we had so pathetically
the patriarchy wants our bodies back—
his soon—mine
to follow—
still we are calm about it—
we have walked 100 feet along the water
trying to make that second rock until he tires—
so we turn and shuffle back—sit under trees—
talk—rain still
blistering
the pond as children walk by—seeing us more clearly
than we see ourselves
perhaps—two old men
practicing getting out of chairs to strengthen knees—
this is my task now—a transparent
trick I use
to keep
what we designate as mind
a while longer beneath yellow leaves
