Margaret Hanshaw

Earthened

Absurdity takes me out to a field
to dig a hole in silence.
I make my home in the dirt,
keep my ashes on the hearth.
Strangers occupy the same deep space.
We blink only once.
It’s summer, I feel the trees.
Everything is either bone, or dust.
I don’t see in here.
A child laughs.
There are no distinct patterns.
No lessons to be drawn.
Slow light.
A purple ease.

Inside the Body Goblet

Sideways baluster
or dead-sleep position for      counting
sheep sheared
 
Vegetable
with skin and core of      cabbage
vibrancy
 
Suitcase in snow
patterned interior, lightly bizarre      alive
in plastic pockets
 
Boulder in river
not for leaving      this
thrashing dystopia

Balcony

I reach my cold hands out

into the autumn sun:

little balconies.

I am my only house.

I house.

To the spider with its many eyes

I am a carapace.

To the birch in blue light

I am a melted tree.

A single mountain diving

miles within itself.

Margaret Hanshaw is author of the chapbook Yellow Ripe (Dancing Girl Press). Her poems have appeared in New American Writing, West Branch, Verse Daily, VOLT, Salamander, New Orleans Review, and Poetry Miscellany. A graduate of Hamilton College and the Vermont College MFA program, she lives in Sudbury, Massachusetts, with her husband and daughter.
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the editor of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom, winner of the 2017 Washington Prize, Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in such places as The Awl, Berkeley Poetry Review, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Cimarron, Gargoyle, The Journal, New American Writing, The New Orleans Review, Prelude, Raritan, Seneca Review, So to Speak, Verse, Verse Daily, and VOLT.