Poetry — April 25, 2016 12:43 — 1 Comment

Three Poems – Taylor Hamann


I grew a mountain
lily in the palm
of my hand while you
were sleeping,
your toothbrush
still tightly wrapped
in that duffel bag,
your boots by the door.

But I held life as it
bloomed under
the shade of my body,
my naked spine turned
towards the sun.




You bought your left hand
five blocks east of the train station,
stitching it to your wrist,

needle poking through soft flesh
and braiding your veins
like licorice. I think your right foot

is from that greasy pawn shop
downtown. You can trust me,
you said, then the rest of your body

became empty fiberglass
and I still believed you.



Letters Nailed to a Pine Tree

Grandfather, we sold
your little red boat on Tuesday.
My name was still carved into the side.
We catch only sorrow in our nets.


These woods don’t speak
anymore. This tree
doesn’t recognize when it bleeds,
sap darkening the paper.


I saw the ghost wolves
last night. They ran
through the sky, charcoal paws
dropping stars like snow.


Taylor graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English and professional writing from Carroll University in 2016. Her poetry also appears in Red Cedar, Polaris, and Pirene’s Fountain. She presented several of her poems at the 2016 UW MUSE Literati and is the co-founder and former editor-in-chief of Portage Magazine.

One Comment

  1. Richard L Ratliff says:

    I really enjoyed these poems great work

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney