by Hanna Karras
On Carrots
For my sister, Rachel
We hear once that carrots become
sweeter to endure the winter.
That they spend the harshest months
of the year breaking down starch
into its component parts of sugar -
smaller molecules that prevent
frost from gaining purchase.
This stays with us, that survival could
necessitate softness. In our next life,
let us choose that form of courage;
let the wolves and birds chase wildly
as she and I remain only more and
more alive in tenderness.
On Burials
After Boisseau
I do not think it's a coincidence that
the only dreams I have are ones in which
I am forgiven. Awake, my holy work is
erosion as a form of penance, so it follows
that the most fantastic thing I conjure
in sleep is permission to die
in context. I have never been a fighter –
I do swell and burst, but the only threats
I launch when I am afraid concern my own erasure:
“You will not believe how small I will become,”
“You will not believe how much you will forget.”
Ultimately, “shame” means “to cover.”
You get older, you learn how hard it is to surface.
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Hanna Karras is a writer and mother from Baltimore.