In February, the cold fingered dawn
is late. My loosened soul,
hung between my ribs,
cries out. I am a coward. I run
as he tries to make out the
shape of his sorrow. Soon there is only
the scent of the heavy, moist earth
and the grey ocean in the distance.
The scarred hillsides,
bellies concave out of want.
The ore, coming out of the stone’s silence.
At last, at last.
Hannah Thomasy is 20 years old and majoring in behavioral neuroscience but have always had a secret love of poetry.