Sarah Cook

(how do you prepare for anything?)

the world
            makes days out of our knees
               learns to bleed / quietly

the shoulder that lets into the light

a long black dress
          generous / shoulders roll down like open windows

overseas you bury [breadcrumbs]
the last moment of instinct
little thumbs rolling over the freeway

people don’t always come back//

talk about 
   these oceans / home
                       is often
             pushing your face against glass
             in time your face looks whole

situations require a little more air and inside
the fire
it gets quiet

the arch of a stranger’s back

                                        possessed    (by having memorized all the habits
                                                                                                        of a typhoon) 

Sarah Cook is a consistent mountain. A big, distracted mountain. Her poems live at the top. An MA candidate at the University of Maine, recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in metazen, SWINE, and gesture. She would like to thank dancing girl press for publishing her new chapbook, a meadowed king. She would also like to thank Oregon for being such a cool state.