Ekphrastic Poems “Hopper Hooks” from Damien Donnelly for #NaPoWriMo

The Hopper Hooks – A Sequence in Three



after Habitación de hotel, 1931, by Edward Hopper

She unpacks all that she can fit into a space not hers, these

sheets scented of other skin, that others left while passing.

She undresses before the window          pulls a black shade

 up against the light of a day    at odds with the night of this

room. Sound swims through heat    and laughter – too light

for a single weight – forces its way in, a wave-punch in the

gut of all she has swallowed. There are trains in her hands,

times of parting, but all she wants is to sink down, in there,

under the magnolia of a room not hers or theirs. The carpet

 is moss and she wonders if it will climb along the skin that’s

 grown tired of touch, until she becomes just another stain in

its thread, a disappearance, but for her scent    that someone

 will find while passing, though it won’t remember her name



Violet Opening

after Automat 1927, by Edward Hopper

A hissing in the corner, serpentine heat slivering beneath a sky

of other unidentified objects  refusing her request to abduct. As

she stirs her tea, wormholes open behind her.  She did not pack

this time. Things do not travel well      on the run. Rings turn to

hooks to hold you back. Concessions in chapels of acceptances

choke later in a bedroom she never knew how to decorate.  She

ordered a bowl of fruit to disguise his cologne, still between her

thighs, hissing, snakelike. Unknown to him, it was his last time

in her garden, the violets trembling. Sitting crossed legged, tight

enough to strangle the years      she surrendered, wondering how

it might feel, one day, to bring to the tip of her tongue    the lips

of a woman. Snakelike. Table for two? the waitress asked, when

she’d entered and she’d said yes, as she’d said yes to everything

for 28 years. Empty chair opposite. Judgements. But she was off, to where she’d no longer be an alien       to the want of a woman.




after Sun in an Empty Room, 1963 by Edward Hopper

He locked the door, after she left, after that time she never spoke of

but the disappearance of her scent from the sheets    in the days that

followed, twisted itself around the truth of her                    no return.

He locked the bedroom door, hoping to catch her shadow,   particles

of skin that had fallen, a droplet or two of sweat      cycle     saliva or

one of the many tears he knew she’d expelled                    in the dark

behind his back        after he’d cum & she, while in situ, appeared to

depart. He spied, at times, through the keyhole, how the outside light

slipped in, how it cast a door   upon solid wall from the shut window

and he imagined her frame, unfading into focus,             coming back

for things she’d left behind like the ring     that he hoped would hook.


Wolfpack Contributor: Damien Donnelly

5 poems & interview from Damien Donnelly in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

3 Poems from Damien B. Donnelly writer/host of Eat the Storms Podcast


By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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