By Danielle Hanson
You have grown tired of my presence.
I am a ghost haunting the wrong house.
You are the knowing inhabitant of my ineffectiveness.
I am what happens in the hour when clocks fall forward.
I am a lost hour of Spring,
In Fall, I am erased.
Have no regrets—migrate from my absence!
I will remain as a black rock rolling over in water,
as a ghost bound to earth,
as the weight of honey-soaked feathers,
as the stones eaten by birds to crush their feed.
You will remain the night, rising from the earth at dawn.
Things that disappear
A colony of sea snails as the lava hits water.
Laughter as you realize it’s not a joke.
The memory of sweet during bitter.
Love, as she sees from across a party,
the look you give your wife.
Night in a spotlight.
After we capture the scenes on the camera,
we must destroy the camera to be free.
why do I not take pictures of you
as with your flashier brethren?
You walk near my bench bobbing
in agreement with the day.
And then walk away, hoping
you haven’t been seen.
I will not bother you
except perhaps to hold you in my hand,
to pet your soft back and coo at your smallness.
About the Author:
Danielle Hanson received her MFA from Arizona State University. She is 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 50 journals. She is Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books, and has edited Loose Change Magazine and Hayden’s Ferry Review. Daniellejhanson.com.