Lies

When even the light lies, trust the darkness.
Digging into past is self-burial,
time throws detritus over digger, over shovel.
Eventually you are cave, monument to the past.
Take cave flowers, crystals grown
over thousands of years, water evaporating as stone.
Under them, a man discovers lake in the dark, fossil of ocean.
He throws a clod of past to find its end.
Water splinters, a stalactite after a stumble. The man
slips on his ascent, falling back into past.
He was trying to escape for a while.


Danielle Hanson is a poet who strives to create and facilitate wonder. She is the author of the poetry collections Fraying Edge of Sky and Ambushing Water. She was Finalist for 2018 Georgia Author of the Year Award. Her poetry has been the basis for Haunting the Wrong House, a puppet show at the Center for Puppetry Arts. She is Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books, and is on the staff of the Atlanta Review. More about her at daniellejhanson.com