Hannah Connor
1-28-22
Today I steal space.
Insistent, I push things off.
I make it my own.
They cave of course. They love me.
Death pending, they aim to please.
2-17-22
My tumors are strange.
Tentacles twisting my brain,
Into awful knots
Pulling down the hours left
And draining away my thoughts.
2-28-22
Heart like an anvil,
Plummeting through life’s atmo,
Soul scorched by its wake.
Terminal velocity
Is weeping on the bedroom floor.
*Jisei are Japanese death poems. Sam is the author’s cat.
Hannah Connor is a writer currently based in Northern Michigan though she intends to move to Phoenix to continue her education. Growing up in Colorado and Northern Michigan, Hannah joined the US Air Force out of high school. After four years in Texas and three in Japan, she got out and went to California. A year there showed her John Steinbeck was a keen observer, so she high-tailed it out of the state in search of who she was. She’s still searching, but she’s enjoying the adventure despite a pandemic and political and economic turmoil.
Write On, Downtown 