Quiet Hours
City lights glistenthrough the gold ofnight’s first kiss. And the bartender looks outthrough the twilight veil of gilded rain,wondering to himselfwhether the weather will let up,or if now is the best it will ever be. Poem and photography by Hazel J. Hall.Previously published by The Sunlight Press.
DIY Pancreas
The hook weaves through the yarn, and, in it, I see the breaking, flowing loops of a body. Being diabetic is just like making a sweater. The needles come in and out of the skin, the stomach, the soft parts of a person you wish to keep tender. The hook does one chain stitch, then…
I see my reflection in the orange juice cup
The porch talk is weighed down by crows& we look at the sun hoping it looks back.The eggs are scrambled & the dogcatches the scraps. I’m so sickof going through the motions.Same breakfast, same porch talk.I want to make orange juice by milkingstars. Space should be an ocean& tidal pools should be filled withoranges &…
“Is anyone listening?”
My hands find their way onto the spaces between the piano keys. Even when the amnesia takes me over, I know, / I will still remember music. / I can’t picture where the notes laid on the lines, but I know every feeling in my fingers, where they seek to belong. I will still remember…
Hazel J. Hall 