by Danielle Hanson

Bones of air, you  

hold nothing.  

Weapon of first  

and last resort,  

drowner of kittens,  

prison guard of  

gems. If broken, you  

multiply. First tool. 

Beauty and boredom,  

the cheekbones of the  

earth. You make your  

home in the pockets  

of children. You live  

in the throats  

of birds, grinding  

seed. You do not float,  

but will dance on  

water if asked right.  

You are the home  

of moss, the little  

brother of mountains, 

sand to giants. 


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Danielle Hanson is a poet who strives to create and facilitate wonder. She is the author of the poetry collections Fraying Edge of Sky, winner of the Codhill Press Poetry Prize, and Ambushing Water, Finalist for the Georgia Author of the Year Award. Her poetry has been the basis for Haunting the Wrong House, a puppet show at the Center for Puppetry Arts. She curated a poet/artist collaboration show Alloy at Arts Beacon in Atlanta, where she is Poet-in-Residence. Danielle is Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of California at Irvine starting in 2022. Learn more about her at daniellejhanson.com  

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