Saturday, March 25, 2017

Industrial Flat (Day 66)

He just sits there and reads
the newspaper in our industrial flat
up north. Outside our windows,
the neighborhood blends in
with the low, pewter sky
and the book of poems
I've been reading.

From where I sit, I see
flocks of flustered starlings,
yards of disintegrating trains,
and the memories of workers
who once stood in line,
coffee steaming from between
their parted lips, to punch in
at the time-clock downstairs.

(Said clock left intact in
what I often imagine as
an attempt at architectural irony).

Some of the memories are vulnerable,
some blocked or shocking, while others
are blue as sea glass. The clouds shift and
settle, exposing a sliver of bright sky,
like a sudden smile.

He puts down his paper and sighs.
I get up from my favorite chair,
cross to the gray tweed sofa,
and sit next to him.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, March 24, 2017

Far as the eye can see (Day 65)


Photo: Laura A Macaluso, PhD

supple, undulating 
highway, delicate fissured lace  
thrown hastily over shoulders 
that stretch from azure to indigo, 
far as the eye can see,
urging a wandering heart to dream 
of prairies and hares 
and homemade jam
beckoning the restless soul
follow me: siren song sherry-sweet 
on the back of the tongue 
follow me: warm as an old woolen 
blanket on an autumn evening 
follow me: every rose-quartz glance 
a flirtation, every breath 
steeped in stillness
follow

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Face of the Sun (Day 64)

Resplendent veiled light
I cannot go deeper into it
today the face of the sun
is lifting off  
heat crackling like paper
smooth as cream   and slow
as blackberry honey in
a cold cabinet
I cannot go deeper into it
those midnight murky caves
of greedy desire and
single-minded passion
devoured piece by piece
like grapes,
up amongst the white
marble columns glowing
rose-gold in a March sunset

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

They Decide (Day 63)

Tomorrow, They,
in their navy or gray wool,
Ivy-striped ties, and
butter-soft shoes,
They, whose salaries we pay,
will begin to decide
what we may have and
what we may not,
who will be treated and
who, be denied.
Tonight, my neighbors
and I wait to learn whether
we might thrive or, if sick,
go untreated—
and how easily
we might expect
to do so.
Their decision affects
our employees not at all;
we've guaranteed a lifetime
devoid of want or need,
with equal care extended
to their families.
This is how our public
servants will begin
to decide, and
we'll win or lose accordingly,
because we're American,
and we're free
to choose.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The Lighthouse (Day 62)

 

Hand in hand they walked 
for miles, cellophane heat rippling 
in the middle distance. No shade, 
no shade, and it was hot there 
on the blacktop, where stillness 
settled between the pines growing 
within throwing distance 
of the shoulder. 
Their palms sweated, salt air 
passing from her to him, 
and back again, 
and, always, the lighthouse, 
somewhere off to the right, though
often out of view. His face 
reddened, her nose burnt, and 
they longed for water, and for 
the bicycles they earlier refused, 
as if they had forgotten how to ride. 
Perhaps, if they had practiced 
how to pedal and steer,
how to keep their balance,
they wouldn't have lost their way 
and become separated, 
he at one end of a long, sere road, 
she, all the way out here, at the other, 
neither able to put one foot in front 
of the other, to retrace the miles again.
The lighthouse is no longer 
on her right, but behind her, far 
enough behind that, though she 
sometimes strains to see,
she can barely discern its beacon.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, March 20, 2017

Where the Truth is Written (Day 61)

 

I can hardly see the trees anymore, let alone 
the forest, floor composed of fallen leaves,
a century's worth of organic debris, perhaps more
than I care to count anyway
you look at it, the truth is written in 
  the pattern of your missing hair, 
  the blue now faded from your eyes, 
  the spaces between the razor thin lines etched
    into the back of your hands,
  the rings you no longer wear
    on fingers so swollen from typing
    lies, that they no longer fit
your purpose now, as you can see,
is to reach the bold red X on the corner
of your map, where you imagine treasure awaits
discovery by a conquistador of your stature, you 
won't find contentment there, though,
the demise of longing, your old companion 
about whom you could elucidate, wax poetic,
compose sad songs while sipping wine
in a cafe, but no, we'd rather never hear 
some lonesome tale of martyrdom
embellished as it would surely come
from between your truth-parched lips.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Sunday, March 19, 2017

First Arrived (Day 60)


Taking in the South— 
an allusion to
when you first arrived,
carrying the weight 
of so many others, maybe
a little bit crazy.
Everyone thought 
our energy was funny.
What a refugee is: being 
a conqueror of the world,
not a dirty word.
Gathering on the patio 
in the cool aqua evenings, we
are such fighters and warriors now—
on the move, singing
like birds, a political idea 
we have come
to represent. You
are welcome to
take more than just one look.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six