(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.