I watch over you like the fat-faced
moon who winks the window
when you buckle in the eddies
of dreams. You breathe underwater,
surface and gasp, shadow in the doorway.
He wakes you night after night,
his absence no longer relief. Your fist jellies
then hardens in amber. Your heart
tentacles for something nourishing.
I am always above, protection
from harsh weather. You beam vibrations
and crucifixes. Silent sirens. A sensation
that shivers like icy rain. You are a bird
with invisible wings. Skeleton key. A long
winding staircase of wind. I cannot reach
you. Him. Only guard you from the outside dangers.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 2.
Linda Cooper lives in Ronald, Washington and teaches creative writing at Washington Outdoor School. She completed her MFA at Eastern Washington University and her poems have been published in Verse Daily, Hayden’s Ferry Review, West Branch, Many Mountains Moving, Willow Springs, Third Coast, Tupelo Quarterly, Los Angeles Review, Permafrost, Hubbub, Elixir, Diner, Pontoon, and many more. She also won the 2015 Orlando Prize for Poetry and the 2022 Allied Arts Foundation Prize. Her chapbook, Blue, a Waltz, will be published by Floating Bridge Press in 2023.
See all items about Linda Cooper
