Having Work Done

- Hannah Loeb

Hot Amy in a fake lab coat
rubs saline on my chin hairs 
and squirts them fried.
My chair sits me up after.
I’m getting nice and
polished it’s nice/fine, my
lashes as long as the
line at the mall. How did
I do it––do I have the aim
of manipulating fancies?
Sure I do, I have to, my
parents got an anonymous
letter about my chin hairs
from a “friend” who knew
their address and cared
that I find someone. They
were embarrassed for me,
the friend, the parents
bought me the treatment
without explaining, I guess
a January warning wasn’t
so out of line. Called Jessica,
Caroline, called friendships I’d
cradled asking who did it and
no one admits, no, no one
admitted but secretly
I knew not who precisely
but approximately who.
Later Katie coughed and I said
“bless you” so I could force
the thanks I’d missed from the
lace crypt of her lips––we were
making white sangria with a
blistered pomegranate. I
begrudged her every sip.
Going home to my family
licking cranapple cubes
on the plane I misheard
a helpful thingy, it was,
there are a total of
six sexes. The nearest
could be behind you.


Hannah Loeb is a poet and teacher in Idaho. Her dog is black, her pigs are grey, and her husband's beard is red.