Very Few Women (Day 416)

Very few women my age 

worked with visionaries. 

We were too busy: talking, 

frosting birthday cakes,

mopping the floors to

a mirrorlike finish. Really, 

being a housewife was

a very big deal. Respectable. 

My friends and I grew up 

looking forward to keeping 

our own homes. Now, it’s 

called something different: 

domestic engineering.

These young girls today, 

they think they want it all: 

Dating, college, husbands, 

corner-office careers, and 

then the kids, and those 

ridiculous jogging strollers—

they don’t run enough?

We could have done it all,

too, of course, but we 

focused on raising our sons 

and daughters to be less like 

their parents. Well, I for one 

am just glad I was able to be 

there for my children when 

they came home from school. 

The world is different now, 

though, isn’t it? Too expensive. 

And dangerous—all these men 

with guns, shooting everyone! 

Who knows? My turn may be 

next. Or yours. So, we’ll see.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: ArtsyBee/Pixabay

Her Place in the World (Day 293)

She is small, 

barely tall enough 

to reach 

the first swinging hoop 

from the little metal platform 

welded onto the jungle gym. 

So, when the big 
blond-haired boy 
with the raspy voice 

taunted her, 

she froze. 

And when he shoved her 

out of line and 

she landed hard 

on the concrete, 

she remained silent, 

and the other children 

did nothing, 

their eyes averted 

in fear and shame 

and the mild disgust 

the world feels for victims. 

Later, she recounted the story 

while her mother and 

grandmother cooked dinner. 

When she showed them 

her scraped elbow, 

her mother said: 

"What did you do 

to make him shove you?" 

Her grandmother added: 

"He sounds like 

a very sad little boy. 

You should pray for him." 

That day she learned 

about her place 

in the world, 

about what she could 

expect, and what she 

should tolerate. 

So, when her husband 

screamed at her for buying 
creamy peanut butter 

instead of crunchy, 

she found herself 

thinking how sorry 

he must be, and that

she needed to pray 

for him.

Intimate-partner violence (IPV), or domestic violence (DV), affects all of us in some way. 

For example: mass shootings significantly impacted children: 25 percent of mass shooting fatalities (211) were children. This is primarily driven by mass shootings related to domestic or family violence, in which over 40 percent of fatalities were children. (EverytownResearch.org)

 For a wealth of information about IPV/DV, or to seek *confidential* help, please visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline website, or call the Hotline at 1-800-799-7233

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Andreas160578

Native Intelligence (Day 287)

He comes and goes 

under cover of darkness, 

even on a sunlit day,

the soft click click click 

of his bike gears

often the only sound 

giving him away 

when he wheels it, 

scowling and stomping, 

under my window

because he does 

not like to work.

It’s a shame, really, 

considering

his native intelligence, 

uncultivated and neglected, 

despite the myriad 

advantages that 

ripened and fell, plum-like,

onto the green grass 

around him while 

he idled on the lawn 

outside the modest but clean

white vinyl-sided house

where he grew shabby

and thick with weeds. 

His few friends--

partners in crime, 

his mother joked 

each night when he came in

--might have considered 

his descent a warning, 

had they grown up

in a town worth 

staying in--or even 

a town worth leaving.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TheoLeo via Pixabay 

By the Phone (Day 285)

Upstairs  

in the spare 

room   imagining

your face 

with a mixture 

of dread 

and longing

I hang up 

the phone   cord 

snaps back 

into place   

  phones 

    had 

     twisty 

 spiral

    cords 

  then   

and tiptoe down

the stairs 

because my mother 

forbade me to 

call boys   I was 

supposed to wait  

for them 

to phone me   

but    somehow

the threat of 

being alone always 

terrified me 

more 

than my mother’s 

quick temper.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Free image via MaxPixel

Dripping Words (Day 260)

old-fashioned roses 

russet pathway 

wends  hard-edged 

encircling a bench 

we chose in glossy 

April’s warmth  coffee 

cups in hand  legs 

splayed casually  

sunshine fierce  naïve 

and future-bound  

doubtless   in cocoons  

humming and content  

dripping words that 

never mattered as much 

as what we meant

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Before 1980 (Day 235)

Lake-shore picnic lunch

Among beloved strangers

Snowfields in summer

Memories drift, floating home

Spirits caught in ash and stone

In memory of my uncle, Gordon H. Fiske, who passed away this morning.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Lyn Topinka

Afternoon Melts (Day 217)

afternoon melts 

warm breeze through 

topaz days of baseball 

and lawn-mowing and 

complex watery 

flowers sliding down 

lilac and gray 

evenings drawn long as 

tart cherry pie 

tender crisp and sweet 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

(Image: Vintage picnic [1962], courtesy of Heather)

Abuelita, June 2017 (Day 179)

We crossed the border in

a rusted Falcon, on a wheel 

that was starting to go flat. 

A fountain of dust spouted 

behind us, tinting the sky  

terra-cotta where the sun shone,

Powdering our car, skin, food 

with an ancient, ubiquitous grit,

metallic on our tongues, like blood.

Whenever we passed another 

car, truck, any sign of civilization, 

she ducked and covered herself. 

Before the stark mountains, a plain, 

monotony interrupted here and there 

by run-down, sun-broken signs. 

We drove through darkness, wide 

open to the desert air, vibrating

under a million spinning galaxies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Rennett Stowe