Chloe Hanson

Chloe Hanson is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Tennessee – Knoxville, where she studies poetry and serves as the Events and Promotions Coordinator for GRIST Journal.  Recently, her work has been featured in Crab Fat Literary Magazine, Off the Coast, and Driftwood Press.


he said he didn’t have a condom


but he played baseball as if that mattered but I remember his ass-

inine comments about my un-

athletic figure, the way he slid

his hand under the dollar-bin

thong I picked out at the mall knowing I would

bring him home which turned out

to be a room in the Egyptian

with a clear view down the slick

black sides to the street and I wondered

if some rich Vegas socialites in hell-

icopters circling the city for a bachelorette

party could see me on my knees

and elbows dark hair anonymous

Thank God.


what would my mother say

if she saw the phone recording

did he give his friend the room

key did my face show or just back

tattoo they could use to identify

me if I went missing he said

He meant no harm.


in his defense he let me look

for my missing earring after

he fed me have a shot   2   3  of his Svedka he held

my hand when we walked to the lobby

He told me his full name.



The Moon in a Jar

All who have died are equal. – Comanche Proverb


White-shell woman,

pale and sad, you forget

to wake and light the sky,

we call your darkness new,

but it is a tree, thick and

warrior-strong, marked victories

visible only when cut down.

We should have buried you

with something to mark your name,

instead I got a call at the wash sink

of a grocery-store deli, hands

dirty as if digging for you

in the grime.  Your daughter

said no funeral.  By the end

of the week she held you

in marble the color of Zion,

red heaven where your last light

painted the white sand of you

the color behind closed eyes.


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