Last shift. My heart washes the dish you laid those damn red berries in.
Strange, ok, the way some early moths assemble upon the locust tree,
judged dead or alive by motion, mostly. The way they suggest,
through movement, what will occur. Each winter bud, naked, minute,
splitting into bloom. By movement, I mean I have thought more
about what it means to be let go. After all, there are only so many words
gathered on morning walks, so many lessons the grass can teach us,
green cereal. That trees can teach us, running their xylem sap.
At some point we'll learn from one another, won't we? The blue bowl
was your great-grandmother's. It will come to me, you say.
Unless I don't want it. Unless. Maybe you'll give it to my sister, Mary.
I mean I have thought more about what it means to be so hard-headed.
Even a stone submits to change. To being detained,
pent up, washed away. Have I imagined the white warning
that appears on each black moth wing, signature of submission, of defeat?
Like they want us to admit we are leaving. Like they heard we were fading away.
in a net you escape new mud on these family feet
as if walking simultaneously pretending not to be in the habit
of a white station wagon that was perhaps your question
should i have been a dancer? the boys on a beer run
hens peck squash rind as if girding a book of sunsets
the sun keeps paging orange/orange/red
how strange as if prey calling out, feathers of sos
since we're in a net i want someone you say
we're just using this soul as an instrument of perception
have it back now cold cans of Coors Light
old camera zoom big mood
I am finally waking up to how dark it is
-- Hannah Craig lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author ofThis History that Just Happened (Parlor Press, 2017). Her work has recently appeared in journals like Copper Nickel, Occulum, Mississippi Review, and the New England Review of Books.