A Poem by Hannah Larrabee
Author: Poetry Editor
December 14, 2017
This week, a poem from Hannah Larrabee’s chapbook Murmuration (Seven Kitchens Press).
Hatchet blade sharpened against whetstone. Split kindling tossed in bins.
Firewood stacked. It was made impossible for me to live any other way.
The way some flock to the light of cities, land spotted after what feels like
months at sea, to find it already inhabited – just the way they like it.
But when I drive these unlit roads, I watch the edge of the woods for flashlight
animal eyes, those acetylene torches.
You do not know me well, but every recognition has occurred: the already life.
Me, standing at a fence. You, on horseback.
Desire puts on a quiet cloak and I am thrown back into it – we are in bed,
bed of what, tall grass? No, a handmade quilt, underneath which you have
whispered my name, given up to me, my responsibility alone, to turn over
your body as I would any land I have loved.
HANNAH LARRABEE is the author of Murmuration (Seven Kitchens Press 2017), Sufjan
(FLP 2017), and Virgo (FLP 2009). She was selected by NASA and invited to see the James Webb Space Telescope in person during a call for artists. Her JWST poems are featured online and were displayed at the Goddard Space Center. She’s had work appear in: HOUSEGUEST, The Harpoon Review, Fourth River, Rock & Sling, Printer’s Devil Review, and others. Hannah teaches writing and works for a software company in Boston. She has an MFA from The University of New Hampshire. hannahlarrabee.com