I would ask that you name
your dog
loss
is not
a teacher (then love a longer kitten
(like an angel
might
an ashtray, more
even
like your mother
a thing on its way
to being
bird
(or shaped
not uncommon in a household of grief
for one
to be bad
with names.
(the radio
an animal
that misses
its bones
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 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. More about her at daniellejhanson.com.
~~.
Cat Love
The cat loves his kill,
walks around it in
circles, nuzzles it
softly, purrs
into its wounds,
wants to bring it inside
his soft belly.
.~~
Mouse
The mouse
collects footfalls
to make a nest,
gives birth
to a litter of winds.
.~~.
tell me again
how it is
that dream
stops
tooth decay
in angels / why it is
that I can hear
in the darkroom
post-god
the ghost
muscle
of weeping
/ when it was they found the suckling
and not the bones
of a wave
As If
poems, Anna Meister
Glass Poetry, 2018
~
“…I have given myself permission to be
a monster in little ways.” -Anna Meister
As if thumb wars are underway in some temple where the many seek the blessing of forgetfulness, poet Anna Meister tasks the written word to offer a oneness by which a reader can map the interior of any lateness a person may come to in order to dwell upon things unnamed. With its full-bodied interruptions and without decoration, As If is a restorative condemnation commemorated by the local uplift of its verse. It creates, in form, a ghosted extra and summons answer from the echo of its ask. As these are entries of where that give a future to when, the work itself becomes a telling that grows in the story, that speaks to remain untouched.
~
reflection by Barton Smock
~
book is here:
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a baby
teaching a baby
to forgive, a birthmark
as it prays
for bite, the future
appetite
that moans
for god- and.
my half-eaten son.
the hole in his sleep.
his pawprint ears.
~
{everything I touch remembers being my hand}, available here:
~
reading, from:
kingsoftrain 