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

Coming Years (Day 439)

imagining majestic scenes 

and indigo horizons, 

steeling himself, he walks 

purposefully toward his first flight, 

white-knuckled 

grip on the leather handles 

of his bags

before today, exotic meant 

a drive-up in a neighboring state,

a girl whose seamed hose 

looked almost as soft as her 

bare legs, and dancing 

to jazzy music, late at night, 

in the parking lot 

the symphonic prairie, 

vast—glowing as it would in all 

his coming years 

of dreams—blooming beneath 

the milky way, blowsy 

and heavy with memories 

as a late-autumn rose.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: EvgeniT/Pixabay

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

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.

Final Fitting (Day 409)

During the final fitting 

she let the gown slip 

to the floor, revealing 

somewhat more than 

the freckles on her 

broad swimmer’s back.

So typically bold of her, 

whispered the women 

behind the door—

seldom practical and 

not very controlled, 

always seems to be 

missing an essential 

part of the general idea.

Later, she told me she 

agreed, until I reminded 

her of the-dinner-party-

of-the-bare-shoulders,

where that late-summer 

evening cast a watery 

glow, the perfect backdrop 

for her peridot-green silk, 

the exact shade of greed, 

mossy and golden as 

drafty castle ruins on 

a rumpled Irish cliff.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

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

Roy G. Biv Pt. 3: Yellow (Day 321)

Years ago, Mr P set detailed plans in motion,

To install his own president across the ocean.

He baited his hook with loans and promised power,

and, Lo!, caught some Republicans within the hour.

The ‘Pubs had been sidelined in 2008,

By a Black politician who filled them with hate.

With destroying his legacy as their guiding rule,

The party chose Roy as its figurehead fool.

The enemy-allies launched a massive attack.

There were murders, and robots—they held nothing back. 

Defaming opponents and promising the moon,

Roy yucked it up like a big orange buffoon.

Sure, they won, but most knew the election was potted,

And in all the best newsrooms, the scam had been spotted.

Soon Roy’s Russian ties became the main attraction, 

So the frenemies, frightened, cooked up some distractions:

They’d attack the defenseless, the children, the elderly—

In due time, they’d goad Kim into World War III.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (c. 1900) 

by W.W. Denslow, via Wikimedia Commons

Lapsed Lovers, Part 2* (Day 283)

...but all frozen operas melt, 

the Earth loves heat, and 

sweeping shade trees

love the Earth, and there, 

caught in the middle, they 

recall their favorite scenes, 

rekindling cold memories 

in which the very pears 

hanging within reach, sing 

golden notes in dulcet tones

no lover worth his bruised

blue heart will admit 

his part in affairs gone wrong,

and even Cupid rolls his eyes 

at their sigh-soft gazes and 

insistance on playing 

that song again

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: The Embarkation for Cythera (1717), Antoine Watteau 

(One of my all-time favorite paintings!)

*Continued from Lapsed Lovers, Part 1 Day 281

Lapsed Lovers, Part 1 (Day 281)

balloons bloom into clouds,

splashing shadows on the shining 

heads of twelve lapsed lovers, who turn 

their dazed eyes inward, reveling in 

triumphs, recounting tales of yearning 

and rough-hewn wisdom 

not one remarks on the livid scars 

that mar their conquered hearts, 

evidence of arrow-wounds, proof of 

the ancient sorrows and false starts 

that brought them to this place, 

a garden of gods, where they muse 

and stroke the smooth red skin 

of apples with their busy mouths 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: ateliersludosophiques

Shortcomings (Day 266)

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

I Still Smile (Day 265)

I still smile

When i think 

of you, I still feel

the key ring on my 

middle finger, biting into 

the tender neighboring flesh,

the weighty beige phone 

receiver in my hand.

I still see 

your face, tanned

and rosy-cheeked from 

the bitter cold, and how it 

paled beneath that particular 

shade of fluorescent light from 

overhead, drained of color, still 

glowing when, eyes flashing, 

you broke into one of 

your knowing smiles.

I still hear 

you talking, voice low

against the ringing soprano

chorus of crickets, when, on 

a slow night, we might find time 

to talk, to linger indoors, letting cool

air fortify us for our next foray.

I still feel 

the thrill of the walk

—through the dark streets 

echoing with roiling engines, ribbons 

of music, and laughter from the riverbank—

to your door, where my flat, dull evening 

would transmute into fireworks over 

the Vegas Strip, or, if you were out, 

into a cheap 10-watt bulb.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Lasvegaslover

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

Newlywed (Day 263)

Look at me,

waking up thinking

about you, a thousand miles

away. On my finger, a ring,

unmarred, bright with shining

dreams and burdensome

realities. Do you wake

up this way, too—wondering

about me, here in the sun—

on your frost-crisp northern

mornings? Or have the wheels

of your world continued their slow

and steady progress, 

carrying, removing 

you, ever further away?

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

TeerawatWinyarat

Regulation Standards: A prose poem (Day 199)

 

 Two of my neighbors built a horseshoe pit,

to regulation standards, in the yard next door. 

For a few evenings, their laughter rang out like 

a clanging bell, testifying to the neighborhood’s 

well-being. Then the games ended. I wonder 

what happened? Did one cheat the other 

out of points, or the last hot dog on the grill, 

or half a handful of their mutually-preferred drugs? 

Or maybe one asked too much of the other, 

expected too much time, too much hilarity, and 

frightened the other away? Perhaps it was 

the simple fact that one was employed, 

while the other avoided jobs like cracks in a sidewalk 

(not wanting to break his estranged mother’s back). 

These days, young rabbits graze the grown-over pits, 

and lush weeds camouflage the wooden backstops, 

disguising the evidence that, for a few evenings, 

two men’s worlds overlapped, like a Venn diagram, 

but were unable to sustain contact. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Horseshoe pitching contest at the annual field day of the FSA (Farm Security 

Administration) farmworkers community, Yuma, Arizona, courtesy US Library of Congress