Angels as Mice

 

The infestation was in the crawl

space and walls—chanting

under floor boards, hosannas in

the middle of night,

angel scat in the yard at dawn.

The websites said to take action

at the first sign, so we set

traps and waited.

If the infestation goes on long enough

you may start to notice a distinct

unpleasant smell, markings 

on the wall—angels leave grease trails

wherever they go, spreading diseases 

to smite wicked,

announcing unwanted pregnancies.

If you find angels, don’t try cohabitating.

We patch holes in floors and stop

prayers for intersession. Dispose

of bodies, double-bagged. Keep pets

away.  We make conditions inhospitable—

avoid being the only holy people in a wicked town,

or prophets slacking their duties.  We must stop

being shepherds watching flocks at night.

 

(c) Danielle Hanson

Poem appears in Fraying Edge of Sky (Codhill Press)

 

Eating his dead wife

 

It doesn’t even seem weird anymore,

eating his dead wife’s ashes

in his cereal every morning.

He enjoys being with her every day,

her inside him for a change.

If the cereal is sweetened, 

he thinks of her eyes.

Bran reminds him of her navel

and how like a bowl it is.

He doesn’t know what will happen

when he runs out of her again.

 

(c) Danielle Hanson

Reprinted from Ambushing Water (Brick Road Poetry Press).  First printed in Hiram Poetry Review.

 

Naming

 

Naming something is committing it to memory.  Death,

hovering over a field, is called Eurasian kestrel.  

Mountain evading sky is called Alp, or Himalaya, or . . . 

The startling of day into hiding, like a doe in the forest,

is called night, and now doeand forestcan take residence

in our brains.  Day, peaking from the corner to see 

if it’s safe, is called stars, but never moon, never flashlight or firefly.

A rock has always been a rock, even a toddler knows, 

and there’s no sense in naming it.

 

(c) Danielle Hanson

Reprinted from The Manyard