In the Second Place (Day 431)

...in the first place, she said 

to the window, the violet desert 

night, her flushed face mirrored 

back in a reflection, where their 

eyes met. And, in the second, 

you don’t even know who I am. 

A swell of annoyance, or maybe 

it was boredom, lifted her off 

her feet for a few seconds, and 

suddenly, she could see herself 

from outside, from out there where 

stormclouds of stars piled up on 

the horizon, where a hot wind 

sipped sweat from your skin so 

quickly you never felt a prickle, 

where that silvery road unwound 

like a mystery, northward, over 

a series of rocky hills.

Outside, where the scrub brush 

met the drive, two glowing green 

eyes appeared like magic. They 

seemed to be looking directly at 

her, shimmering in rising waves of 

ambient heat. She gazed back, 

momentarily unaware of the man 

waiting for her to further explain 

herself. The green eyes blinked 

once, twice—then vanished as 

she stepped out into the evening

closing the door firmly behind her.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: fancycrave1/Pixabay

Have You Ever (Day 430)

Have you ever come home exhausted from a trip 

to the grocery store right before Thanksgiving, 

having fought crowds of last-minute shoppers 

and carried in bag after bag of ingredients for

the feast—and dropped the bag of flour you just

bought to make pie crusts? The whoompf when 

it lands, the explosion of powder that covers 

everything and hangs in the air for hours so, 
as soon as you finish cleaning, every surface is 
once more covered in a white film that turns to 
glue when it comes in contact with water...?

You are that everlasting cloud.

Have you ever stumbled into the kitchen to make 

coffee at some ungodly hour, barely able to see, 

only to find a damp mass of yesterday’s grounds 

fermenting in the brewing basket? Wrinkling your 

nose at the oddly ashtray-like odor as you upend 

the filter into the trash, you manage to miss the bag 

entirely. Fine grains of wet coffee scatter, bead-like,

onto your bare feet and the kitchen floor, finding 

the most arbitrary and unreachable hiding spots, 

and crunching underfoot for days...?

You are those day-old grounds.

Have you ever invited a friend to dinner at your 
new home, freshly decorated in airy shades of cream 
and white, shown him to your favorite Italian-leather 
chair, handed him a glass of pinot noir, and watched 
in horror as he spilled it? He offered to pay all of the 
cleaning bills, but you graciously refused and, when 
he returned for another soirée, he exclaimed about 
how everything looked as good as new! (Because, you 
did not say, it is.). Once again, he relaxed into his seat, 
and once more his blood-red wine landed with a 
sickening splat on your white wool carpet, thin purple 
veins trickling down the buttery sides of your chair.
Have you gritted your teeth, reassured him, replaced 
your chair and carpet again—and then invited that 
same careless friend back to your pristine home for 
another evening of wine and cheese? No?

Well, my friend, neither have I. 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: roegger/Pixabay

Her White Whale (Day 389)

shaking her head at the modern world’s distaste 

for promises, she vowed instead to pursue her 

White Whale deep into the indigo mystery

to that end, eyes wide open, she dove headlong

into an icy pool of stars, and broke the surface 

again in a shimmering burst of breath and water

later, sinking into the multi-layered depths of midnight,

she found herself wondering if she wanted to 

awaken from the liquid solitude of dreamless sleep

but a ghostly fluke, like mermaid hair, beckoned, 

and she leaned into the sweet awareness of loving

the precious freedom of being neither here nor there 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: iwona_kellie via Wikimedia

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

It's Like That (Day 264)

It isn’t a slow song that gets to me, 

but the shuffle of boots across

a sawdust floor, dry as august 

weeds, screen door banging against 

the frame from time to time, 

red dust coating on the chairs. 

It’s the way a certain singer’s voice 

breaks just there, at the edge of that 

single note, and how the steel guitar 

falls away from the band to sway 

through a slow swing solo. 

The beer is just okay. The crowd, 

rough as brand new, 

never-been-washed 501s.

But that boy, with the silver band 

around the crown of his dark brown hat? 

The way his eyes darken as he plays, 

and the skin at the nape of my neck 

tingles in anticipation? He brings me 

back, and back again.

It’s like the shuffle of bare feet on 

a wide-plank kitchen floor, the scent of 

strong coffee brewing on the frost-bitten 

edge of a long autumn morning. It’s like 

the sunlight glazing each falling leaf 

against the backdrop of a cedar forest, 

so the trees seem to be raining fire. 

Yeah. It’s like that.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Charles C Pierce, Inside the Yellow Aster Saloon, Randsburg, California, ca.1900

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