Two Poems by Anna Drasko

Not Everything Wants to Hurt You

The huff woke you from your daze.
The body knows what the huff is. 
………….The body screams, scratches, summons — run.
………………………………………………………The body moves into motion

until you remember you are not 
supposed to run from a bear. 
………….Nimbus shadows shift, take a peek.
………………………Mom and a cub, thirty feet steep up the cliff.
………………………………………………….Felt like you were already dead. 

Why can’t you look away?
Keep moving. Talk to yourself. Keep moving. 
Round a blind corner,             hear the leaves crunch 
in a rush, coming toward you, and you know            this is it. 
You will have to fight off a family.

………..You never do, though.

……………………………..They stop. You go.

………………………………………..Keep moving, talking, moving.

The body knows they are not coming 
for you. Half a mile ahead, jubilation.
Felt the need to curse and cry and celebrate 
being alive.

What they seldom tell you is that 
………………………………………………not everything wants to hurt you.

Hackberry Woolly Aphid 

Out the window, smidgen white specs swirling.
Whimsical, wafting. Graceful snowflakes. 

My investigation revealed they were insects. Tiny magic, 
floating through the air, fellowship of fairies. 

Intricate, waxy fibers make up their fluffy coats.
Dreamed up in imagination, now vivid. 

One landed on my shoulder, wispy with wings. 
I strained my eyes and neck trying to memorize

its features in the sun-gilded glow of the late 
September evening. After its exodus, I searched

for the name of this creature. Hackberry Woolly Aphid.
Hint of adoration. Allowing the world to seem strange again.

Anna Drasko is a writer living in East Tennessee, where they spend their time in the Great Smoky Mountains, hardware stores and music venues listening to bands they’ve never heard of. Their work is forthcoming in Thimble Literary Magazine. You can find them on Substack.