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

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Rustic Luxury (Day 59)

coastal meadows
—fertile with grasses 
and light like lace—
perfectly complimented 
by the softness of lovers 
who wait 
for the perfect dreams,
spun with luxury, 
and always 
just a little out of reach 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Friday, March 17, 2017

Brighter Than Azaleas (Day 58)

Brighter than azaleas, we
walk arm-in-arm, oiled
lips like plums, coconut
scented fingertips, young,
while on the radio, tuneless
bluebird time pursues
and tires us.
We, glimmering blankets
by the pool, cloudy, green
as absinthe, jade escapes
us, bridging then and now
like sky and sun
and sand heaped up
in dunes, the grasses laughed,
we laughed and wandered, too.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Thursday, March 16, 2017

The Places He Does Not Know (Day 57)

The places 
he does not know 
      are no less real for 
his incomprehension, 
but this will 
      not always be 
so, and I long 
      for that day 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six