Hannah Cohen lives in Virginia and is a MFA candidate in poetry at Queens University of Charlotte. She’s Poetry Editor of Firefly Magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in december, The Tishman Review, Sea Foam Mag, Mom Egg Review, The Shallow Ends, and elsewhere. She tweets at @hcohenpoet.
your skin is a washed-out
preschool playground. even here the rain
falls after a little while.
the car radio scratches out an insurance commercial
down a 4:45pm road. you watch the sky
and its dotted chorus of vultures.
yesterday it was a gas station. the plastic top
fell on the floor and you didn’t want
someone to see you care enough to put it in the trash bin.
you ask yourself how easy it is to be made
out of pearls. always looking for wildflowers
blooming in your mouth.
there was a time you didn’t live
with your hands cupping a stone you tried to crack
your favorite episode of csi miami is where the gators
eat the bad guy so no one deals with the consequences.
you’re buzzed and no one listens anyway.
the road is gone. there’s a green glass
bottle with a ship inside your stomach and it’s never
going to stop breaking.
Like a bloom past midnight,
the girl I am descends
heart-first under the last
June sky. The cloud lake
curves along my hip bone,
and the wood moon brushes
across my lip. Convexing,
concaving until I’m less
naked, become water.