Julia Cohen




Earthen Box


Distance was my unbroken length

even binoculars could not cut. Fjord


landfill palisade. Threw eggs in

the ocean. Splints all over the body


I tried not to leave prints on items

and animals. Tried to consolidate


my shape with movement. I hid under

tree-hem and briar, memory came


from a photo I claimed. Here I saw

the creatures crawling, dirt shimmered


with worms. Unabashed the paper-trails,

entrails. I learned it is best to cup small


things and blow on them to build small

things and blow on them to light small


things and blow on them to surround

yourself with the ones who remind us


the good grow too, yolked to us.





A Glassjaw Grinding Legs


You tame the spider

with the back of your hand


You don't have to knock here


Our wallpaper is 

a bookshelf repeating


The spider perching near

dried apricots or plums or pears


I will never grow into you


There are only so many ways

to enter the room


This is how I eat the spider

No one knocks when leaving





Sea-Glass Rations  


Innuendo of fishing for pears,

resplendent and salty. An intimate

extraction. Cares come to dine  


to the tune of avarice. This is

where cars come to die. Extravagance

of spatial matter precipitating satire.  


Avoidance equals reverting to cracker

and juice. Escalators make a show

of existing. Transfer strangeness in suits  


above assimilating trees. Definitive: the squad

assassinated fire. Take the inverted

mountain with a safe dosage.  


How is your pillow? A villanelle

of gasoline and valentines. Reckless

of question, reckless but supplicant havoc.  


Bookended by two great ceremonies. To extricate

a cosmology of shoe and song. Initial refusal,

day of bootless battle. Supreme of the lark  


of the labor, a la mode and wanton.

Rein in the sea-glass, a purple

piece for every hour.