by John K. Kruschke
Stars Fade
​
In grade school
​
the sky in my backyard
​
was filled with familiar stars,
​
memorized by heart.
​
Then, diurnal demands,
​
a driving schedule,
​
allowed seeing at night only
the waiting alarm clock
​
in the caves of anxiety.
​
Retired now,
​
still insomniac,
​
I look through a narrow window
at the night sky,
​
stars unrecognizable,
constellations forgotten,
​
random, disorienting, surreal,
​
awake on an unearthly planet.
Translated from the English
Spots Appear
​
I was young
and the skin on the back of my hand
was
taken for granted.
Many decades
gripping the steering wheel
with hands at 10 & 2
​
​in the sun of parenting and career.
Finally pausing
​
at a rest stop in the evening,
I am startled by
​
the back of my hand full of
freckles, spots, blemishes,
foreign membrane,
body-swapped to an alien husk.
[First read down each column, then read row-by-row across columns.]
John K. Kruschke has poems published in a variety of journals including Blue Unicorn, Stickman Review, The Lake, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Sage Magazine, Flying Island Literary Journal, Pine Hills Review, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Grand Little Things, Cool Beans Lit, Discretionary Love, Spare Parts Literary Magazine, and The Argyle Literary Magazine. He has also published numerous articles in scientific journals on topics ranging across moral psychology, learning theory, and Bayesian statistics. He is Provost Professor Emeritus at Indiana University in Bloomington.