A COLLECTION OF POEMS

BY ALI HANNON


Clay

When your bones were fleshed out
And your smile pressed with one finger across your new head,
Your eyes alive,
Clay clumps formed into limbs
And a heart, like treasure, encased within,
You were made.

Your soft form, steady, walked on.
Pummelled by the journey’s heavy rain,
Stones stuck in your pliant feet.

At home, in the light of a candle,
You reshape yourself, smooth dents and reform
Some roughness remains.
You draw back on your expression,
Hasty, and less curved than the night you were made.

The pulling of pieces from your kaolinite soles,
Each leaves a print of dirt.
Yet still this world’s motion,
The whip of storms that weather you
Are only resolvable harm.
The bright days dry you;
Harden your skin and fix your form.
And in that lowly light you set,
Until just the brush of a hand will cast away the dust of your day.


Mountain

The morning earth tired,
Flexing, wrapping.
Plates moved roughly
Aligning, but not quite.
Quiet surges under earth
Ruptured the ground,
Erupting, you say, without warning.

We say in unison: “Some say it had always been known.”

Now mountains are here
As if they always had been,
Polite prophecy.
Each calcite shell picked
From these creases
Reminds me of the youth
Of this surgent ground.
There is sand here too,
A momento of friction, a burn.

A simple southerly wind adjusts us over time,
Softening the angle on which to climb.


After

I wept that winter,
Finding solace in the empty space between heaves, momentary,
Your fingers tapped across the bones of me –
A rhythm spared the indulgent melodies
Of lust; persuasive percussion.
My skin was dull in its vibrations.

Your hairs intertwined in mine,
Each one coloured by hand, red –
Like the fever you felt and the fervent fires now embers.
I pluck them out and lay them out side by side.
They are the last of you, movable by movable air

Little is left. Only the decorations
Of the self you supplied, a reflection of a self maligned.
The books you never read are
A fortune I did not want to inherit.
You packed your favourite pages anyway.
Now they smell like they are ancient;

porous, torn.

 

See more from Ali at alihannon.com

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