three poems

by David Hanlon

Splitting Summer

Tell me life is a scarlet lampshade,
and I’ll fling open every porch door—
let summer pour in,
glowing like molten honey
that cools to crystal,
water splitting from sugar
across a July sky.

Tell me optimism is a rattlesnake,
and I’ll wear it round my throat—
a live coil whispering
angled truths,
its devil’s tongue a master key
splitting every groaning lock
that never turned.

Tell me linear TV dramas are my muse,
and I’ll make the main character
my doppelgänger,
slipping through scenes
too neatly resolved—
a wandering mirror,
gold as a medal,
buried in a stiff drawer.

Tell me my narrative was always different:
fractured, looping, recursive—
and I’ll pry open that coffined coffer,
seize my golden reflection,
wear that badge again,
this time with honor.

Tell me it’s the end,
and I’ll start.
Still, I’ll start—
scripting new stories
as the credits roll,
watching you leave
with each name announced,
disappearing into the frame
with your maudlin score.

Leave me.
But before you go,
witness Lucrecia Dalt
and Juana Molina
turning the soundscape inside out,
circling me in cerulean blue,
haloing my split sky,
layering the score
of a self telling itself.

Sunken World

I remember this heart, aflame—
a pond of restless red koi,
underwater fire-fish
darting through drifting duckweed,
circling their drowned civilization.

details

the leather couch
is a cracked desert—
if you look close enough.

at thirty-eight,
i start noticing
the details,
and haul it outside

to the dew-draped garden,
where i sit
and summon
every rain-carrying cloud.

Photo of David Hanlon

BIO: David Hanlon is a poet from Cardiff, Wales. His work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including Rust & Moth, Anthropocene, and trampset. His debut full-length collection Dawn's Incision was published by Icefloe Press. You can follow him on Twitter (@davidhanlon13) and Instagram (@hanlon6944).