The In-Between
By Krista Lee Hanson
For Renée Nicole Good
You said your soul lived, perhaps,
in-between your pancreas & large intestine.
My soul has been skittish,
these days, hiding, perhaps
in-between my cranium &
cervical spine, under hunched shoulders
bracing for the next disaster,
but your violent
murder,
the sudden snuffing of your life,
your mother-poet light,
the horror of it has shaken me,
rattled something loose,
and in the aftermath my soul has spread
wide as a lake on a windless day,
clear as this winter breath,
fully inhabiting my gut with the knowing:
we are many millions more than
mercenaries and despots,
we the people, who threaten the regime by loving
the things they cannot sell us: our neighbors,
friends and strangers, children and their teachers,
the ones they have insisted are other,
and, also, the migrating birds,
the coyotes and beavers,
the trees with their secret language,
their souls telling stories in the soil,
and the hope that comes,
every single sunrise, that our love
and solidarity is magnetic,
drawing more and more
people into our circles.
You wrote about sacred texts,
wondered about science and
faith meeting, asked if those religions
could be as gentle as your mother,
sliding long hairs behind your ear
and now we know your mother
is both tender and fierce,
your wife, too, speaking your name,
calling you baby—
drive, baby, drive
& now telling the world
about your Goodness.
Krista Lee Hanson (she/her) lives in Seattle, Washington, home of the Coast Salish people, with her partner and two children. Krista’s writing has appeared in The Rumpus, The Normal School, Rad Families, A Celebration and other publications. She has been a finalist for CRAFT’s Flash Nonfiction prize, and she was nominated for the 2025 Pushcart Best of Small Presses prize. Currently, Krista is writing a memoir about disability and complex care, and organizing with her neighbors to build webs of community care. Visit her website at kristaleehanson.com.
Poet’s Note: This poem is in response to On Learning to Dissect a Fetal Pig, by Renee Good (previously Renee Nicole Macklin).
Photo credit: Diana via a Creative Commons license.
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