TWO POEMS by Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams


Painting all the spines of the books blue,
for example. Tasting me so absolutely
as to know the monsoon of my sickness.

Licking my lips clean of disturbance
while hunting for the trees I want
at every window, that wanton green.

What if, in reciprocation, you gave me
every song you wrote for other women?
Only, be correct, change their hair to dark.

Wrapping a belt around the waist of all
clouds floating in my chemistry. Being
beautiful. Being exquisitely beautiful.

For example, not being a cloud floating
in my chemistry. For example, not misting
away, a ghostly disturbance in the atmosphere.



But my body is a narrow hull
of birds regretting the sky. Inside
you is a chasm of thrown things.

But my secret is a pond drifted
over with leaves, winter-cold
and reflecting my hands only.

But my yearning is a spray of stars
arrowing out of my fingertips,
falling on the dark lawn by the party.

But my nights are a thousand faces
turning away, sipping their drinks,
looking at someone they’ve just recognized.


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About Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams

Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams
Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams is the author of The Man Who Danced with Dolls, for which she received a Whiting Writers Award and a Rona Jaffe National Literary Award. Abrams has also been awarded a North Carolina Arts Council Fellowship. Her work has appeared in The Oxford American, The Pinch, Southern Humanities Review, Mayday Magazine, Flash Fiction, storySouth, Carolina Quarterly, and elsewhere. Abrams lives and teaches in Wilmington, North Carolina.