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.

NEXT

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).