Sarah Cooke: Revisitation

Spring '11 TOC

wind blades rip open the seams on my hands and
tear tissue deep
to a place in my chest.
blood and mucus pour from the rupture
and glisten like honey.

what I knew might be wrong.

a flock of geese bursting from my skull
where a young man kisses my brain.
his hands are not ruptured and the fingers
find themselves alone in my belly
            —they make a nest and stay there.

but in the impermanence of staying
I find a constant question.
constant movement in no direction.
stillness of summer rituals.
this is a place I love but
love is without language and
words bring me safety.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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