Hannah Smith | Poetry
A landline connected your hands
to the sky. You ordered up
the thickest snow we’d seen this far east
of the Mississippi.
You kept receipts
for sunshine, so my sister and I
could bathe in spring. I wanted
your seasons to follow us south
to the hot, dry house, the patchy grass
in the yard. Each year you bloomed
trees for my mother, your daughter. The dogwoods
lined the hills behind Long Knife. No fence,
only soft rain carving
its way through the leaves. I ran barefoot
to feel closer to green.
On your final birthday, I drove north
across four states, along the tail of a storm. You and I
wrapped ourselves in blankets, watched ice fall
from telephone wires. Not enough air
in the room to fill
your lungs on a day too cold to let in
the winter. Your own weather
bleeding through caulk along glass.
Now, this day, on a low, curved street
where you lived in a house with four girls
and a dog, where I live in a house
with a dog and too many windows
to ever keep clean, it storms
again. I am unsure
how, just yesterday, the sun
pulled early buds from the tips
of branches. Your hands
behind the rays. And today, heavy rain
I wade through
in my basement. The waterline
still clear from the last flood. So much
thunder. So much wind.
Hannah Smith is a writer from Dallas, Texas. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at the Ohio State University, where she serves as the Managing Editor of The Journal. She is a Best of the Net nominee, and her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Mississippi Review, Nimrod, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere. Her collaborative chapbook, Metal House of Cards, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.