Cordelia Hanemann
demolition
the façade is black with rain
by afternoon the crushing ball
will have done its work
the arm of the yellow-coated
backhoe rearing its metal
maw removing all remains
ghosts of walls still streak
the sodden sky phantom
lives swirl past like wisps
of smoky fog accumulate
in piles of dust a vanishing art
the walls are down and
we must live still
surely we can live anywhere
if we must as we flee
disasters we have made
removed from harvest
removed from work
our limited world several sizes
too small and getting smaller
we survive now a liminal space
between what has been
and what will be
we count our unlucky dead
as we pick our way through
the rubble of what is left
salvage a few stones sticks of wood
fragrance of breads another kind
of ghost in eerie streets
the map
map of a face
beyond the lines
of longitude and latitude
crisscrossing trajectories
so many journeys like
the contrails of jets across
a blue-gray sky
the fabric of desire
callus of hand
at the wheel follows
the arc of sun
compass rose of hope
desire the felt
what can be seen
a string of pelicans
steel-gray skimming
the horizon of ocean
its silver line against
sky on fire
the world strays
wounds fester beneath
worn fabric
the shoe soles
barely
shoe soles
but the face stays
lips having kissed
hands having touched
feet having walked
body without rest
that map knows nothing
that the face does not
searching eyes squint
into the sunset as though
into history and the moment
hands unsteady at the helm
navigate the boat
home homing in to a shore
unseen
the façade is black with rain
by afternoon the crushing ball
will have done its work
the arm of the yellow-coated
backhoe rearing its metal
maw removing all remains
ghosts of walls still streak
the sodden sky phantom
lives swirl past like wisps
of smoky fog accumulate
in piles of dust a vanishing art
the walls are down and
we must live still
surely we can live anywhere
if we must as we flee
disasters we have made
removed from harvest
removed from work
our limited world several sizes
too small and getting smaller
we survive now a liminal space
between what has been
and what will be
we count our unlucky dead
as we pick our way through
the rubble of what is left
salvage a few stones sticks of wood
fragrance of breads another kind
of ghost in eerie streets
the map
map of a face
beyond the lines
of longitude and latitude
crisscrossing trajectories
so many journeys like
the contrails of jets across
a blue-gray sky
the fabric of desire
callus of hand
at the wheel follows
the arc of sun
compass rose of hope
desire the felt
what can be seen
a string of pelicans
steel-gray skimming
the horizon of ocean
its silver line against
sky on fire
the world strays
wounds fester beneath
worn fabric
the shoe soles
barely
shoe soles
but the face stays
lips having kissed
hands having touched
feet having walked
body without rest
that map knows nothing
that the face does not
searching eyes squint
into the sunset as though
into history and the moment
hands unsteady at the helm
navigate the boat
home homing in to a shore
unseen
© Copyright Cordelia Hanemann 2020
Cordelia Hanemann is currently a practising writer and artist in Raleigh, North Carolina. She has published in numerous journals including Turtle Island Quarterly, Connecticut River Review, Dual Coast Magazine, and Laurel Review; anthologies The Well-Versed Reader, Heron Clan and Kakalak and in her own chapbook, Through a Glass Darkly. Her poem, "photo-op" was a finalist in the Poems of Resistance competition at Sable Press and her poem "Cezanne's Apples" was nominated for a Pushcart. Recently the featured poet for Negative Capability Press and The Alexandria Quarterly, she is now working on a first novel, about her roots in Cajun Louisiana.
