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.

by Julia Cohen

published in the Adirondack Review

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