sarah cooper

Togetherness: An Imagined Life
Golden Shovel (after “This is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams)

One morning I announce: I
think I can be with you and have

the me that has been eaten
by full people. The

darkest scar plum –
purple, turning yellow that

at the edges you were
rubbing salve in.

Primary colors weren’t the
problem, but you know this, too. Icebox

contents can’t calm me and
your fingers can which

I’ve watched for years, you
know this too, were

you ever going to stalk my stare? Probably
so, maybe not, likely saving

the whatever us is for breakfast
chatter with no grace, no forgive-

ness for the ungodly amount of sugar; me
hungering over your lips, iced, they

open for laughter and lattes. Were
you imagining this life delicious

too? The sun so
warm slanting on my face, sweet-

ness lingering and
your plate so

sugar-sprinkled, fork cold?

 

Dinner Across the Table from You

Even this late
my skin feels fresh as morning

to be looked at by you.
Water brims upper lip

like sunrays resting
on your arm’s east sleep.

Time or tenacity
has given your pores depth

& I watch the rhythm
of ribcage to chest articulate both

& really I don’t need
answers. What do you think

you need? Say it
with your hands. I close

my eyes across from you
knowing your fingertips

over my morning skin
I brought to dinner

likes everything you might say.


Watching My Father Watch My Mother Die

I want to tell my father his masculinity will
not save him from this.

Say: Dad, your masculinity will fail you.
See how I put masculinity and failure

in the same sentence? Now, I’ll put it on
the same line: masculinity will fail you.

And now side by side:
masculinity fails.

Now, I’ll put it on.

 

Flu Season

 

She stayed home every day,
            didn’t want to risk contamination
                        be validated: immune system too run down.

At least that’s what we told people:
            declined parties & dinner invites,
                        bowed graciously, out of school plays.

Really, we were trying to preserve her,
            brine her in Epsom salt baths, keep her
                        hydrated in essential oils and salves.

We were slowing her down. We were asking time to forget us.

Canadian-American poet Sarah Cooper resides in South Carolina. Her poems appear in Lunch, Room, Pligrammage among other journals and anthologies. Her chapbook, Permanent Marker, was released in spring 2020.

© 2020