Poetry: Trey Moody

Loud like Nevada

One thing
this hotel’s plastic shower’s not
is quiet. Still and surely
cicadas are sounding their alarms
uneventfully outside,
aren’t they? Yesterday
a could-be president parked
his darkened charter bus beside
a diner named for someone
who probably ate a lot of eggs.
But tonight, this Monday night,
the moon’s just a noontime speech
delayed a little too long. And
tomorrow, well, tomorrow’s
already fallen deep
into Tuesday’s expectation
where, once inside, we’ll never sleep
so stiffly again. It is here
that we welcome
your most thoughtful of prayers.

The Running Joke

The television hovers
above your hospital bed
the way a handsome door
conceals a bright room.

Hey, I’ve heard that one
before, but I haven’t.

This disease—your word—
affects everyone eating
at this restaurant.

There are certain sounds
meant to catch our attention;
there are others
we should never listen to.

Moody-PhotoTrey Moody is the author of Thought That Nature (Sarabande Books, 2014), selected by Cole Swensen for the Kathryn A. Morton Prize. He lives with his wife and daughter in the Texas Hill Country, where he grew up hating summers but loving winters.