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January 4, 2019 / barton smock

person Hannah V. Norman, three poems


Hannah V. Norman is a student living in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Her work has appeared in Rattle and Charleston Style and Design.



Clutch in your mouth the moment of still before the choir sings
The lull in the air on a humid day
The pregnant pause as everyone waits for someone
To fill the void
But no one speaks
A dusk where the lights are on
And the house is silent
The veranda is warm
And the old rocking chair
Creaks soundlessly.
Clasp in your hands
The note you wrote to your future self
And the letter that is a prayer
That you never mailed
The sight the water made when
A golden shaft of light pierced its soul
And the time you knelt on the floor
And tasted sea-salt and copper
And your knees ached when you stood.
Remember someone told you
You don’t remember who

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