One Poem by Karen Craigo

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Passing through Humansville

Twice today, I’ll slip into and out
of Humansville, both coming and going,
but now tendrils of fog span the road,
the layer of white like an old lady’s hair
spread out behind her in rapture. Why not?
The oldest vessel can still hold
a drink, or else you’d call it a shard.
From his potter’s wheel, my friend
can see sometimes a woman, maybe seventy,
who bikes in looping circles
in the empty funeral lot. And maybe we’ve chanced
over the patch of ground where our ashes will light.
Maybe unwittingly we’ve danced.




Karen CraigoKaren Craigo is the author of the poetry collection No More Milk (Sundress, 2016) and the chapbook Escaped Housewife Tries Hard to Blend In (Hermeneutic Chaos, 2016). She maintains Better View of the Moon, a daily blog on writing, editing, and creativity, and she teaches writing in Springfield, Missouri. She is the nonfiction editor and former editor-in-chief of Mid-American Review, as well as the interviews editor of SmokeLong Quarterly.

Header photo of fog on road by xusenru, courtesy Pixabay.

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