Unfinished Business

If I could make beautiful things with my hands, 
which would be preserved: the things or my hands?

Look, here is a jar of cornmeal and night is on the heels of the sky.
The sky is cranky and does not like to be rushed into such matters.

Its tongue clicks like glass marbles meeting marble marble,
these are the silly rhythms of life worth living for.

The cold beds floating in seaside attics are a little slice of heaven,
I saw a cliff before my very own eyes and there was no urge,

it's hard to admit but I care for nothing except that
which splits open and dies because I have returned

from a past life I ask the universe to be kind,
it is kind, I ask the universe to be cruel, it is cruel

 

 

Ode

I imagine running    I imagine she    will be impressed
with the size    of my ankles    and the seashells
I will crush    against my forehead    like a cracker. 
The sun has intentions    a shadow could not recall, 
although I hear    that it is    a blessing
to be anything at all ---  the moon is begging
to be plagiarized        I am deeply trying
to remember    how to care    for a lily plant. 
There are ways to die    by a hand    she implied
I ran up the hill    in January    and she followed me
yet there are no flowers        in January
Why     do things look like    everything
except  exactly    what they are?
Is it appropriate        to celebrate this?

 


Catie Hannigan is a poet and visual artist from Maine. Her chapbook, What Once Was There Is The Most Beautiful Thing, was published by DIAGRAM in October 2015. More of her work can be found at http://www.catiehannigan.com