Zachary Cosby

Zachary Cosby’s work has appeared in the Los Angeles Review of Books, the Portland Review, and (is forthcoming in) Gesture. His most recent chapbook, 21 May (Glo Worm Press), is a collection of photographs, screencaps, and texts amassed over a single day. He lives in Philadelphia, where he co-edits Fog Machine. 

✣✣✣

 

I found

a pair

of black

jeans from

yesterday

folded across

the porch

swing.

 

I want to

know how

we start with

such little

bones.

 

There are

so many

moods.

 

Sitting

rooftops

of two

story

houses.

 

City,

street,

islands.

 

I wasted

hours

walking

drunk from

southeast

33rd to

northeast

24th.

 

I look at

the sky

through the

glass eye

of a

telescope.

 

What is

it like

to make

a mouth

a weapon.

 

To go to war.

 

I’m asking

because we

share it.

 

You need

a whole year

to blush.

 

You barely

brush

my arm.

 

I thought

you were

someone

else

 

He frowns

and I feel it.

 

In my spine

I feel it.

 

I sit on

a rooftop

in a different

city and

feel it.

 

There are so

many moods.

 

Recognizing

fingerprints

on windows.

 

The rosebush

outside blown

red and pink.

 

I can’t know

my face.

 

The way you

know my face.

 

Running

water, the

shower,

just a little

longer.

 

Letting

black mold

grow.

 

Jean jacket

memory

of last

summer.

 

I walk out

the front

to greet the

mailman.

 

He doesn’t

have what
I want.

 

There are

so many

moods.

 

I walk down

Killingsworth

a flowerhead

crushed in

my palm.

 

I need your advice.

 

The important

thing is not

to imitate

the emotion.

 

To strike

as in a bell.

 

To find hair

down the sink.

 

I think I hear

wind chimes

in my sleep.

 

They say

it’s snowing

I’m swatting

millions of flies

that hide in fruit.

 

My hair

licking flowers

just to taste them.

 

The wet ripe

clangyness

of rain.

 

Soft rain.

 

Raining rain.

 

Bruise me

like one of

those seasons.

 

Two parking

tickets

from the

street cleaners

at dawn.

 

There

are so

many

moods.

 

Washing the sheets

just after.

 

I pick two

figs when

walking

to La

Sirinita.

 

We’re out

of sour cream

she says

 

That’s alright

I say

 

My hands

above the cold

plastic counter.

 

I feel barely

thirteen.

 

Blue pack of

cigarettes

we hit

our palms

against.

 

Yes offline.

 

I am afraid

of your body

that craves sugar.

 

I am afraid

to touch

broken arms.

 

The chairs

start to break

until they all

broke.

 

There are so

many

 

lakes.

 

Bodies

of water.

 

Sea floods.

 

Lakes.

 

Loky.

 

Loch.

 

Marsh grave

pit of hell.

 

A lake has

no face.

 

A lake in the

morning

in the world

has no face.

 

I stare

and stare.

 

Twenty five

candles

blow out.

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