Blue Hour by Hannah Hirsh

August ends; the world outside dissolves

in warm rain. Dead flies float in pools 

of gold, the tang of soap and vinegar rising

sharply in the heat. Aren’t we done with all this yet,

the peaches softening into bruises, darkness

sliding itself between our thighs, a scent

of ripeness everywhere, dampening our underarms. 

Isn’t it perfect, the moment of waking 

and feeling nothing, before the memory

of your unhappiness returns to you.

I like the sound of sirens in the distance.

I like to see a man cry, the same way I imagine

a man likes to see a woman undress,

quietly, as night sinks into the velvet cushions.

On the bedside table, the clink of ice in

a glass like two links in a silver chain.

Hannah Hirsh is a writer based in Brooklyn, NY. She has received support from NYU, the Fine Arts Work Center, and the Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts. Her work has been published in Harvard Review, Ploughshares, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. She is Co-Editor of the award-winning literary magazine American Chordata.

16 October 2023