Lamento decirte


Florida sighed its big wind
and our tree fell,
broke the gate’s iron teeth,
sent so much water into the attic
that we could stand
among damp sheets of paper.

Abuelita held us like a monstrance
to see the eye of Matthew.
We pointed to the graying sun
shadowed by the haze of the hurricane.
We picked up the blown marigolds,
planted their yellow into little red cups
and placed them near the windowsill.
We prayed the rosary
with our hands held together like sap.

I used to think
that fear was one-dimensional
but now I know it is dry lightning
and Cadillac hearses
and the thought of growing older.

Do you remember
that pine tree and all its needles
we liked to pull apart?
You always got the wishes
and saved them for me.

Do you remember Abuelita’s big eyes,
like manzanilla olives in picadillo,
stuck somewhere between
a rainstorm and a sun-shower,
her freckles like orange soda stains,
the sound of her last leaving: that soft,
never-ending jingle of bangles?


Hanna Wright is a self-taught folk artist residing in Keavy, Kentucky. She uses her experiences growing up in rural South-Eastern Kentucky, teaching special education classes, and living with obsessive compulsive disorder to inspire her unique works of art. She graduated from the University of the Cumberlands in 2015 with degrees in Special Education Behavioral Disabilities and Elementary Education.