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Rose Jam

With knees foam-sheathed she pins the brown soil unwilling body of earth until sundown it’s hers the grandmother, mother, widow whisperer to the world beneath her, families of spiders scurry and ants dance for the priestess snipping carmine planets from their sky that hit the surface exploded petals crushed between her sandalled toes rose jam boiling in the air she continues her ruthless work for thankless generations

When Skin Won't Sleep

A Bird, a Boyfriend

in featherless flight you left a brood of windows blind to beg for faces as lubricious surfaces do in glassy grief
they squeeze my room made brick balloon & without a bribe I feel a burst
might come soon

© Brad Cohen 2020