Every day an emergency opens
over city roads or through intersections for the replicating homes.
A punctured blare
for someone else’s heart.
At night a slice of moon burns gold,
loosed from a sphere so large it cannot pull bodies dry.
A comma, just this once,
to help us make sense of our disasters.
*
Lack of Good Conversation
I have worn people out with my
questions and desires,
so I stand in my afternoon kitchen
in the white-paste light
just before winter
and think of my children,
who don’t go here anymore, but
who still might come to me
so that I can touch their hair.
The orange in my fingers is actually
a clementine.
Such a small word when
I expect so much –
all the
pain and clatter.
*
Alison Heron Hruby is an associate professor of English education at Morehead State University in eastern Kentucky and lives in Lexington with her husband and two teenage children. Her poetry has appeared in Roi Faineant Press. You can find her on Twitter @aheronhruby
