When We Were Water by Hannah Nathanson

When we were water,
the moon hung lower
in the sky.

We sent messages back
and forth in waves
and boiled under the sun.

When we were water,
we were vast and unknown

alien to exploration,
undeveloped territory,

cold like antarctica,
hot like lemonade stands.

When we were water,
we were fluid within saliva
like survival
like save our ships
only existed in our shadows.

When we were water,
we were unstoppable,
a threat ignored,
an unanswered text.

We never wanted to cause any harm anyways.

When we were water
your mom would bring us fast food.

We would eat too much and
realize I had no way home,
but water was always able to stay,
hide in the pipes until the faucet was turned.

When we froze over,
ice cubes at the bottom
of soda cups chugged along
to footsteps

we were too cold for civilization,
became stagnant enough to poke
holes in man’s best ships.

When we froze over,
my grandma called from upstate,
asking if I had seen the moon

I told her I hadn’t
I told her the windchill was too high
I told her I hadn’t worn gloves in three seasons.

If nothing else, shouldn’t we have realized
that water is too dangerous? With three states
to be broadened in, how could we have been
so lucky to stay in one forever?



Hannah Nathanson
Hannah Nathanson is a 19-year-old artist working out of New York State, where she studies at Binghamton University and explores the parks in her hometown of Buffalo, NY. Her work has been published in anthologies such as My Next Heart (BlazeVOX 2018) and featured in lit mags such as Philosophical Idiot, Peach Mag, Quail Bell Magazine, and Ghost City Press. For more information, visit hannahnathanson.wixsite.com/poetry or check her out on Instagram at @h.annahrose.


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