Author Archives: Janet Hanna

My Death

by Janet Hanna

Even now,
At the moment of my death,
I put my hand in yours,
As I have done for years,
And wait, as always,
For your strength to bolster mine.
I can hear Emily’s fly
Buzzing in my head.
It seems incongruous here
In the sterile whiteness of this room.
How odd that nothing seems to matter now.

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Yet Another Plum

by Janet Hanna

Someone had eaten the red plums.
Carefully, they had piled the skins
On the edge of the plate
And cleaned the seeds.
Some of the juice still clung
To the white plate
Like small, precious spots
Of dark guilt.
The blade of the knife
Had been wiped clean,
And was lying
On the other side of the table
As though trying to separate
The responsibility for its carnage
From its pleasure.
I cleaned the plate
And washed its soiled darkness,
But I didn’t touch the knife.
By Spring, its blade had rusted
And turned the color
Of yet another red plum.

Waiting

by Janet Hanna

For what exactly am I waiting?
The grocery line to hurry
The tiny age lines around my mouth to harden
The friend who doesn’t return a call
An enemy to soften
The finality of Armageddon
My clothes to dry
Justice, perhaps, even world peace
The heat to come on
A Summer vacation
My child to be grateful
The coffee to perk.
My mother’s approval,
I used to think,
Was worth the wait.

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