Hannah Craig


The first she wrapped gum-foil, second layer string,†
a section of her mother's hair like flame against
bend of spoon bowl, fracture of glass in a frame. What a thing,
she thought, added dry grass and a milkweed mouth--silk tongue flagging,
scratched the shape of her hand, drew around

this light; a life-line, a fate-line. Marching ants investigated
apple core and chocolate stick, the pricking way she forked
across a paper doll and stuck it on. By then, she loved creation more

than the presence of real things; pretend
harbor of absent hearts, lost keys. Where did I put my ring?
her mother wondered. Did I misplace that birthday card?
Next-yard boys brought cicada pods and secrets, patchwork
aluminum of condom wrappers and baseball stats. Capsule

of precise remembering; she took volunteers for owl beats;
one morning arrived to feathers and the fur
of a hunting calico. It grew white as a fat worm

and soft, wet in the dew-grass, in the forms of thunderstorms
that left a mist across the body politic. Little girls
stood reverent in bed-sheets and tulle,
priestesses of the transformation as she wound her hands
with newsprint. How will you get inside?
they wondered but never asked; she seemed
to believe it would lick her from the lawn, imbibe her,
yellow tank-top and all.

Date of Birth: 1977
Location: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Email: seraph_15217@yahoo.com

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