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

He Cannot Pronounce Her Name (Day 311)

Unsayable, a scree of consonants

piled up at the base, he cannot

pronounce her name. Love, dear,

darling, forever come simply and

easily as sugar in coffee, 

the way she fixes it for him 

in the morning while he showers, 

rinsing off the night’s dreams, 

that dark oily scent clinging 

to the steam, making his mouth 

water like it does when he wants

 to kiss her unglossed lips 

the way they are in the morning 

when she wakes up, rosy 

and puffy with sleep, warm 

as a winter fire after a midnight walk 

on new snow, when the world 

glows bright as a full moon, 

and the drifts shimmer, casually

heaped against the fences,

already pitted, collapsing 
like those consonants at the end 
of her name, which he cannot, 
could never, pronounce.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Skeeze via 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

Not to be Trusted (Day 252)

The fog of fellowship blurs every

hairline crack and fissure webbing 

the heart’s candy shell—proving, 

yet again, that feelings are amoebic 

in nature, and not to be trusted. 

Like liquor, they peel your throat 

and leave behind a burning uprising 

of shame. Even you, accountable to 

no one, will answer for your aimless 

laxity sooner or later, leaving us 

awash in your purple velour humility.

But we will not be brainwashed by 

the wine you pour, that ancestor of 

greatness whispers truths in our ears, 

even in public, we are the good guys

And we always win.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Bhakti2

The Starry Night (Day 219)

The brown serge, warm in the deluge, 

grew clammy and rumpled easily 

when squeezed into the five-thirty’s

ever-crowded, cramped seats.

Trillions of stars watched as he

—shoulder to shoulder with neighbors 

and strangers in the second car from 

the end—relaxed into the swaying ride 

down the coast toward the unknowable 

emptiness of this Friday evening. 

Somewhere, his seat-mate’s newspaper 

announced with barely suppressed glee, 

a devastating something or other

had caused property damage and,

almost certainly, loss of life.

Somewhere else, right now, he imagined, 

a plane was touching down on searing, 

crackled tarmac, bumping toward a terminal, 

fuselage already covered in red dust,  

overhead bins clunk-clunking, heralding 

the beginning: of vacations, of adventures, 

of memories of a lifetime. Unbelievably,

that lifetime was no longer his; no longer 

his, the smile, the camera, the deep bliss 

of the first, exhausted flop onto the hotel bed, 

the sigh of delight, the de rigeur perusal 

of nightstand drawers and room service menu.

Trillions of stars still watched, as the silver line

of his train pulled up to a darkened station,

spilled a swarm of damp, disgruntled 

commuters onto the pavement, and heaved 

itself southward. Hitching his collar higher, 

fingers wound tightly around the house keys 

in his pocket, he paused, took one slow breath,

then turned left and headed uphill, trudging 

slowly upward into the starry night. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Fæ via Wikimedia Commons