Hannah VanderHart lives and teaches in Durham, NC. She has her MFA from GMU and is currently at Duke University writing her dissertation on gender and collaboration poetics in the seventeenth century. She has poems published at Ruminate, Cotton Xenomorph, The McNeese Review, Thrush and Unbroken Journal.




Hannah VanderHart

Signs



We are bulldozing trees in our town with the fervor and hum we once gave to religion. We called those days revivalism. What we do now with bulldozers we call business development: now the corner lot by our house, now the woods at the corner of Duke St. and Lakewood, where a man lay in his sleeping bag for a week before NO TRESPASSING signs went up. He looked like peace, laying in the dappled light, asleep in a wood. Now the signs come down with the trees, the birds sing in closer formation: the trees by our house have eyes and beaks and many wings, like an old French carol or like an illumination, the song transcribed, and the light — the light is everywhere the trees are not, it warms the backs of the bulldozer’s tires and the ground, the clearing. Our road doesn’t hold the ice like it used to, when the trees caught the light in their branches, sent their shadows deep and sideways. My three-year-old remembers the ground as always bare.



Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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