She doesn’t trust her hammock to hold her weight—or maybe
it’s the hickory branches she tied it to, still slimy after a summer storm

—or maybe it’s the Palomar knot she thought she remembered from silent
early mornings hooking brim in Sweetwater Creek—she probably remembered it wrong—
she can’t remember anymore the texture of worm guts or the way
her father’s hair used to fill out his riverstained baseball cap—not that she noticed
it much at the time, but fourteen years takes a slow, gentle toll

Hannah Silvers is an Atlanta-based writer and editor with a deeply rooted love of both dictionaries and popcorn. Her poetry can be found in Vagabond City Lit, sea foam mag, and a variety of undergraduate publications. Follow her on Twitter @hannah_silvers if you don’t mind a healthy bit of post-modern punctuation.

See another poem in 5.3