by Danielle Hanson
All the saints here are made of stone,
eternal life mocked by their crumbling.
I pick up the stones and swallow them in my gullet—
even the bread is made of stones.
It’s only a matter of relativity of size,
of seagulls trying to blend in with the night.
You said you would die for me, but what good
Is the dead to anyone?
You were a fool who rushed to see the sunset,
just to see the sun die. And in the darkness
realized you were a ghost haunting the wrong house.
So death has woven your time like a spider?
What else could we do?
So this is what is meant by radiance
The sky is dark,
glows as if in full sunlight,
a complete inversion.
The body has become the soul.
The water is not there for the fish
is not there
for the fish.
for the water.
So that no one
will drink it.
But with us
things are more
Conversation with an Alzheimer’s patient
I wanna get back
I got some people comin’ in
I wanna get back
I haven’t seen them in a while, honey
I don’t do this kind of work
It looks like nothin’
If I miss these people . . .
Well, I don’t do paperwork
About the Author:
Danielle Hanson is the author of Fraying Edge of Sky (Codhill Press Poetry Prize, 2018) and Ambushing Water (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2017). Her work has appeared in over 70 journals, won the Vi Gale Award from Hubbub, was Finalist for 2018 Georgia Author of the Year Award and was nominated for several Pushcarts and Best of the Nets. She is Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books, and is on the staff of the Atlanta Review. Her poetry has been the basis for visual art included in the exhibit EVERLASTING BLOOM at the Hambidge Center Art Gallery, and Haunting the Wrong House, a puppet show at the Center for Puppetry Arts. More about her at daniellejhanson.com.