KJ Hannah Greenberg

KJ Hannah Greenberg

KJ Hannah Greenberg has been playing with words for an awfully long time. Initially a rhetoric professor and a National Endowment for the Humanities Scholar, she shed her academic laurels to romp around with a prickle of imaginary hedgehogs.

Thereafter, she’s been nominated once for a PEN/America award in nonfiction, once for a Pushcart Prize in Literature for fiction, and three times for a Pushcart Prize in Literature in poetry. To boot, Hannah’s had more than thirty of her books published, and has served as an editor for several literary journals.

Midlife can’t offer sanctuary from hurt, despair, poverty, ill-health.
Grey hairs, facial lines, tummy bulges never guaranteed serenity’s
Visits, restful nights, noontide smiles, sweet breath, noiseless guts.
Rather, aging conveys difficult isthmuses athwart youth and years.

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Meanwhile, we remember Mommy,
Too. We won’t disregard her tears,
Or fail to recall the owl potholders
She so carefully crafted the nights
Our baby slept intermittent hours.

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No great oak when shedding leaves, I’m losing petals quickly.
Not mites, not snails, nor even fungi; spots have grown where
Xylem stream, where tracheids work, where life’s excitement
Surges.

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