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
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.