Cold Feet, Warm... (Day 122)

Wash that dirty fleece,

And card those dark gray locks,

Spin it in the grease,

And knit me some wool socks.

I like my socks long, 

With cables all around,

Make sure the heel's strong,

And that the toes are sound.

Well, she washed that wool,

And spun up every bit,
Then she let his feet grow cold

Until he begged to learn to knit.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Doors Open (Day 98)

 

Photo by CEphoto, Uwe Aranas

The city warms 

with honeyed sun, 

lazy 

afternoons they like 

to call say, 

when doors 

and windows 

open, letting out 

winter 

hostages, grown 

restive and tense

Families 

picnic and take 

aqua plunges,

vacations

for all and none, 

outdoor eating

being less fun 

without food 

And their mother's 

blind fear 

—impenetrable—

jails her children 

while their friends 

run 

free 

two blocks from here

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Children's Stories (Day 90)

In children's stories,
golden peacocks splashed
where quaking aspens swayed.

Nap-time plundered
long summer afternoons,
but fluttering midday rustled,
tickling her knees.

She felt her heart bloom, once,
in autumn—under pillow fortresses
where vaults and cloisters hid
their secret oaths and treasure
chest of awakened stars.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Backpacking with Madame Bovary (Day 84)

I am stretched out on
the floor of an unzipped tent,
reading Madame Bovary,
while the nylon sides
breathe in
and out,
each inhalation
and exhalation ending with
a muffled pop,
like distant sails on a blue bay.
A hot afternoon stretches
ahead of and behind me,
baking dust and melting
pine resin a delicate incense
gently teasing the dry breeze.
I, however, am
a century away, in a country
where no one speaks
my mother tongue,
flirting and curtseying
and yearning and knowing
each character's heart
as well
as I know my own.
But, the pleasure
of my company is requested,
on a foray in search of wild
trout for dinner,
and I realize my hair is damp
against my neck,
so I roll over, stretch,
unfurl myself from the floor
with the effortlessness
of nineteen years,
and bid Flaubert adieu
until nightfall, when
my flashlight and I will answer
the siren call of Madame Bovary—
and the tragedy of her
unfulfilled heart—once more.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Next Door (Day 82)

friendly voices next door
unravel
a perfect spring day  
moved by consent  
hushed
a deep violet story
emerged
as evidence that to speak
is a considered
constraint
we cannot allow
tomorrow
to affect you
in an intense fight
while three weeks
of late summer
languish in another city
the shoe is reversed
listen  
follow us home

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six