Silken Grip (Day 364)

When the hand lets go   the fingers 

continue to meet   forming an O of 

conspiratorial approval   a manual 

wink   and the glass tumbles to 

the carpet   the clink of ice and 

slice of lime giving voice to 

otherwise-silent sin    the street 

outside fizzes with traffic and 

surely-fascinating conversation   

if only she could hear more clearly   

and she strains her ears to make out 

the words   When the mind lets go   

thoughts continue to seep out onto 

the page   into a world embraced by 

the jumble of thrice-used plastic 

bags favored by the divorced woman

d'un certain âge who abstains from 

the silken grips of costly leather 

satchels   and the need to sustain her 

well-heeled husband’s grim-lipped 

approval   for the freedom to let go

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Kelly bag

Wen-Cheng Liu/Wikimedia Commons

Winter Cafe (Day 314)

The table where we used to sit is empty, 

bare but for a handful of citrus-hued leaves, 

uncomfortable chairs that never supported 

our backs or, frankly, our behinds, have been 

turned upside down, stacked one on the other 

and chained together like escaped convicts 

in an old movie--in it together until they are 

killed, recaptured, or freed by a stranger 

with an axe. You may have noticed, I am not 

being terribly romantic. There were days when 

seeing our favorite place this desolate would 

have depressed me. Perhaps, I would think 

of a simile, about how the sidewalk cafe was 

like our life together, unloved, abandoned, 

or some such. But today, looking at the bereft, 

rain-spattered tables, feeling the damp chill 

creep from the sidewalk into my toes, I think 

only this: I am different now. And I am glad.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image via Pixabay

Indulgence No. 2 (Day 229)

Sirens, my old photos.

Luring me with silvery songs:

“Real love, true, forevermore—”

Leave me wrecked on the reef of Now,

Nightmares of happiness circling.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

After I Left (Day 215)

One week after 

I left, I lay down

on the floor 

on a borrowed futon cushion 

in my new apartment 

in a building that used 

   to be a paper factory 

there were no sheets on my bed

there were no dishes in the kitchen 

there were no curtains on the windows

there were no books on the shelves 

there were no shelves 

there were no lamps

what was there 

was a blue candle 

   with three wicks

   in a wide-mouthed jar 

and a goldfish named Cal, 

   because I loved Cal Ripken,

   baseball hero with eyes like ice

   and a whole lotta heart  

that night, 

after work

after running up 

   the building’s stairs

after blowing out 

   each wick, I lay 

on the floor 

in the dark

and when the demons arrived, 

as expected, right on time,

I closed my eyes 

and listened 

to Cal, sorting through 

the gravel in his bowl, 

sucking up each pebble 

and spitting it out

plink…plink…plink 

and was glad for the company

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bowl of Goldfish, by Childe Hassam, 1912