Behind Him (Day 443)

he hasn’t met her 

yet   but when he looks 

back   he sees her 

there   behind him   

just around the corner 

he just rounded   and 

before him 

is the woman he knew 

yesterday   who is 

no longer someone 

he knows   but someone 

he has yet to meet

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

She Wished to Arrive... (Day 427)

she wished to arrive 

before the others 

disappeared 

into a neighboring party

this had happened

why when one is in a rush 

does every road 

suddenly burst 

into garlands of traffic

interrupted only 

by red lights and 

drowsy lumbering busses

that evening it seemed 

all those wide empty highways 

had suddenly shrunk 

down to two lanes 

simply in order to delay her 

arrival

stepping into the room 

she was momentarily disoriented

as if she had just jumped 

into a deep hot bath

anyone who sensed her 

anxiety perhaps assumed it 

explained her unusually

perfunctory handshakes and 

neutral cheek-busses

which had always been quite lavish 

as she understood it 

should be among friends

anyone who sensed her

would know just why she was

there and what strange

primal instinct

had drawn her 

like a fluttering summer insect

to a porch light at dusk

she closed her wide lips 

around an olive 

and chewed like a man 

on a thought 

that would normally have 

made all the difference 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

In memory of Sue Grafton, whose mystery novels I’ve 

so enjoyed, and whose words inspired it.

Cafés & Libraries (Day 418)

Often, I dream of sidewalk cafés 

and cavernous libraries, where

old men gather to read the papers

and doze. I weigh my options 
in the palm of my hand: Peach, 

pear, or apricot? Will the fruit’s 

fragrant meat resist the pressure 

of my teeth, or will it succumb 

easily, carelessly divulging juicy 
secrets? Somewhere, someone’s 
chair scrapes the stone-cold floor. 

A spine cracks. I stretch. My spine 
cracks. A woman walks by quickly,
remarkably poised, seemingly 
unaware of her squeaky left sandal. 

Collecting my things, I ready myself 

to rejoin the sundrunk joy of April 

outside this cool, dim, ink-and-paper 

world. Fast asleep, silver-whiskers 

and unruly eyebrows twitching, 

the man to my right dozes, snuffles 

now and then, and, squinting into 

the hazy midday glare, I find myself 

wondering if he, too, dreams about

sidewalk cafés and cavernous libraries, 

where girls with leather satchels 

and ripe pears pass through wooden 
doors into the spring-white light.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org Dr. Gustav Stresemann, German Foreign Minister, sitting at the terrace of a cafe, reading the newspapers Photograph 1930 Published: ca. 1930.

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

An Ordinary Letter (Day 386)

He takes what looks like an ordinary letter 

the paper slightly worn and smudged, 

but scrolled and looped with his extraordinary

handwriting, to the blue mailbox up the block.

Left hand snug in the pocket of his beige jacket, 

right barely holding the graying pink leash, 

at the end of which a heavy-set, low-slung 

white mutt ambles companionably.

Requiring only a moment to relieve herself, to 

sniff a leaf here, a carelessly-tossed food wrapper 

there, the dog (like the man) has few expectations, 

and is therefore seldom disappointed.

At the end of the block, he glances sheepishly 

at the empty streets and sidewalks—chastising 

himself for his inexplicable sense of shame—

counts to three under his breath, pulls the handle.

Like a jail-cell door, the mailbox clangs shut. 

His letter slides down the chute, off the other mail

with a swoosh. Then, shrugging imperceptibly, as if 

to say: Well, that’s done, then, he turns toward home. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay