Salt on Velvet (Day 96)

 

salt on velvet

a desperate spilling

of diamonds 

a melancholy

dance 

of crystal tippling 

this way and

that   

difference 

between 

interrupted crying

silent

shining 

joy depends 

on the shimmering 

unexpected appearance of 

wandering possibility

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Far as the eye can see (Day 65)

^{Photo: Laura A Macaluso, PhD}

supple, undulating 

highway, delicate fissured lace  

thrown hastily over shoulders 

that stretch from azure to indigo, 

far as the eye can see,

urging a wandering heart to dream 

of prairies and hares 

and homemade jam

beckoning the restless soul

follow me: siren song sherry-sweet 

on the back of the tongue 

follow me: warm as an old woolen 

blanket on an autumn evening 

follow me: every rose-quartz glance 

a flirtation, every breath 

steeped in stillness

follow

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

First Arrived (Day 60)

Taking in the South— 

an allusion to
when you first arrived,
carrying the weight 

of so many others, maybe

a little bit crazy.
Everyone thought 

our energy was funny.

What a refugee is: being 

a conqueror of the world,
not a dirty word.
Gathering on the patio 

in the cool aqua evenings, we
are such fighters and warriors now—
on the move, singing
like birds, a political idea 

we have come

to represent. You
are welcome to
take more than just one look.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

A Still Day (Day 25)

Photo: Klaus Nahr

A Still Day
by Hannah Six

It is a still day
when the sunshine
opens wide and
the waking mind
rains down,
when rivulets
of overbearing bacon
and egg steam
chart the sheet of glass
separating outward
from inward,
when the waitress pops
her round left hip,
props her tray against it,
and rattles: Are you
the pancakes?
Coffee beads her
brown eyelashes
as she, talking over her
left shoulder, pours
—right-handed
—into the morning
glow, and slaps her
hasty bill into the
convex puddle of
strawberry syrup, where
the ink immediately
begins to run.
It is a still day, when
the bell on the swinging
door rings, depositing
another high-mileage
pile of damp
wool and leather,
solid and gasping,
on the salty white tile,
sails furling, sighing
safe harbor. And still,
as fourteen lowered eyes
dart doorward,
wolflike, ready to lunge,
should the unknown
reveal itself
in the mystery of
one hundred and twenty-three
juice glass mirrors.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Day 8 of 1462: Passing Joys

Passing Joys
By Hannah Six

Overlooking
the garden of salvation,
you tried a measure
of passing joys—
the graceful
letters of quivering young
lovers, pardons
for indignant dragonflies.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Day 7: Ice Floe

Ice Floe
By Hannah Six

Tell me—how do
you decide
where to send the
love the day
serendipity dies?
Tell me—where do
you send the string-tied
parcel of freedom
and future and
fine old trees lining
the streets in the
once-small town where
you first kissed that
lioness of a girl
you'd loved since
she was five years old,
hands sticky
with jam
and the raw adobe
she learned to make
in a kindergarten history
class? Tell me—is it
enough for you
to sleep soundly while
sapphire water works its
way ever farther
into the hairline
fissures that now limn
the ice floe
of your dreams?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Day 6: Bound

Bound
By Hannah Six

Bound by his own rage,
Snarling, he lunges and strains.
The chain remains composed.








**Please do not tether/chain your dog! For more information from the Humane Society of the United States, click here.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Day 5: The Door Slams

The Door Slams
By Hannah Six

The door slams and she
lands heavily on
gold naugahyde
by the kitchen table
wedge-heeled slipper
scuffing at the vinyl floor
ticking away the
roughly cigarette-shaped
moments her mind
surrenders
vague white noise
behind hazel eyes. Afterward
a deep sighing breath
crackling cartilage
a sponge
a two-quart pot.

The door slams and he
allows himself to fall
landing in the palm
of a white vinyl
bucket seat
left leather sole tapping
nervously
oncoming headlights unseeing
eyes. Afterward the glare
the choice
young cashier
smile forced the
same gleaming
fog-frosted highway.

The door slams
she remains
reclining tattered guide
in hand
television snickering
in the middle distance.
Keys dropped on
the dull black shelf
hallway
bag rustling an apology
as he
passes
swirling wake
of smoke.
Yes, she would
like pineapple sauce
but only on the vanilla side.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Day 4 of 1462

discuss
By Hannah Six


it isn't so
much that i
have nothing
to say, but that
you have
nothing
to hear



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Day 3: Apples

Apples
By Hannah Six

It seems the simplest
confusion in
the world to look
upon an apple and
think: Pear

To scoop its fair
golden heft into
the curve of
your palm, the faint
coral blush pinkening
your fingertips,
and firm siren flesh
setting your teeth
to aching

It could
go either way,
this fruit.
One could hardly
be blamed
for confusing
the Cameo with
the Anjou.

But...bite and
taste. You see?
That rustic,
rough and ready,
toothsome tart
hardly compares
with a dainty, creamy,
floral-scented pear.

The simplest
error, but
the difference
is clear:
Pears are suspect
(their bruises
show, their bodies
are soft as sin),

while apples—from
Eve's tentative bite to
frozen pies—
are honest.
Their glory lies
in fairy tales, where
maidens die and live
again to kiss
the juice-stained
lips of cavaliers.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six