I ran through the orchard until the apples
turned to peaches. My foolish hell lacked
the memorable. To the south: a woebegone
face of inertia. To the north: an empty chapel

and brownstones. I reached the graveyard
to cast a promise. The wilderness of nival ghosts
turned my eye’s body. I left regency behind
to live on a sandbar. Placed the dictionary

on a lamp-lit bible stand for my son to find.
My son will notice a spider made a home
in the mausoleum. If my son remembers
a soliloquy and previous obligation: footsteps.

Reentry will be recumbent and lackluster.
At auctions he will buy old houses and boats
to fill the tarn. He must bite the vital seed to see
what is lost at the cost of postage and gold leaf.

Julia Cohen


it's not too wind-torn
out there -- these shutters are

just for show. You have
the warmest bones I've ever

met. The woodpile is dwindling
while my androgyny is a perfect

child that cannot stack.

In the cluttered road, it is
an industrial maneuver

to threaten the neck when it
is the only flora found

upon us. Pedestrian, I mean
to tell you I keep forgetting

the hope I was hoping for.

When the grasses reclaim
the streets, the pedestrians

take to the woods. Luckily,
I hid the ax in the stem

of the factory's floral design.
Remind me how your bones

are warmer than kindling.

There is something living in these
lives I've not yet found.

Julia Cohen

JULIA COHEN is the marketing and development coordinator for Nightboat Books (who just published Fanny Howe's new book) and a fiction reader for Small Spiral Notebook. Her poems have been published in Can We Have Our Ball Back?, How2, Hanging Loose, GutCult, Boog City, Word For/Word and are forthcoming in Octopus, The Tiny, Aught, and Pindeldyboz.
The Adirondack Review
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award