TO THE BONE, BY HANNAH BONNER |
Not the deer I dream of, nor the melt’s quick and shallow stream. Not the rush, the run, breaking through meadow with moonlight— the damp earth, the animal, the trees. Not the blade on the bath I walk away from, skin parting air like rain. Not the wet want inside me which whispers spring is coming, cupped low and mulched at my ear. Not the crocus, not the coming, always already inside you. Not the deer. Their pelts. Their panting. No, not even after—their clamor to the bone. |
Hannah Bonner's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Asheville Poetry Review, Pigeon Pages, Rattle, So to Speak, The Vassar Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and elsewhere, and her essays have been featured in Bright Wall/Dark Room, Bustle, The Little Patuxent Review, and VIDA. She is Poetry Editor for Brink (brinkliterary.com).