Growing Up Apartment | Sara Hurley
The first-floor foot race
meant propped-open fire doors,
the danger of oncoming adults.
We flew, bare feet
slapping hard carpeting,
hitching breath to laughter,
breaking our run with the wall.
Aaron always lived in houses, so he said
“I would never raise my child in an apartment.
They deserve room to play.”
Lava | Sara Hurley
Someone steamrolled the black building on 26th,
left this temporary parking lot
and artist’s rendering.
Affix me here,
a figure behind Little T’s windows,
offered lava and fajitas.
This is the price of fever.
Lumber and concrete burning
River Nicollet to a boil.
Sweet talking me into it’s okay, baby,
six-figure lofts create the housing we need
until I covet them and
cry and curse and
hate that I can’t pull lava from my wallet.
I will duck and cover instead,
drink martinis with orchids
floating in their murky waters
and think change can be good.
I love martinis.
I hope rents don’t
I am drunk, so it’s easier to sit still
when volcanoes bulge and steam sulfur,
ready to burn these streets clean.