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