Poetry by Sarah Hanson

      Cathy CC





For All of Us Wounded, For All of Us Lost

Sanctuary is quiet, as in the birdbath’s unrippled 
stillness. As in the rabbit under the heath, not so much 

as a whisker twitch while fear pulsates 
to a more palatable pace. As in the oak leaf 

waiting for the wind to whirl it to grass, the need 
for hurry absent in the air. It takes as long as it takes. 

As in the rain arrives right on time, unrushed 
by our dust or thirst or need. As in our chapped rage 

will be balmed when the storm eventually splinters 
the sky. Our rolling fury thunder is deafening, quiet 

but not a home.

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Not Everyone Is Made For Honesty

My father used to say he never hit 
his kids like his dad did, but once,
he slapped my teenage thigh so hard 

it left a handprint through the denim.
I lied and said it didn’t hurt. His dad had only 
one war story: he escorted a prisoner

to enemy camp and returned to find 
his entire squad murdered in his absence.
A man told me he killed three people, 

and I moved into his house the very next 
Sunday. I have no idea if this story is true, 
and he’s dead now so I can’t ask him. 

I have no idea if the stories I tell 
about my own life are true. We are all 
trying to make meaning and be believed. 

Not everyone is made for honesty, and sometimes 

the lie makes more sense than the truth. 
I should have believed my ex was violent; asked 
my grandfather for another story. 

I should have told my dad he hurt me.

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Sarah Hanson is an emerging poet with an MA from the University of Chicago. Her work has been featured in Wild Greens, Prosectrics, and The Midnight Fawn Review. She is a contributing editor of Shaking Off the Ashes. The Minnesota native lives in Minneapolis with her husband and three cats.
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