STAYING PUT ❋ Emma Cohen

its easier to see in the swelter
with the glint of near bedtime rose shadows,
the pop-music satisfaction that the glow of a pink sun
over an apartment building provides.
its easier to see unclouded at times like that.
in the swelter when I clink gin and tonics because
I like the way tonic sounds and fizzes in my mouth.
mouth so unburdened by your tongue – no.
missing the way it seals it like envelopes.
letters are futile, they take
way too long, by now my arm has
stopped dripping out of the window of the cab and
I no longer feel quite as romantic. you can’t write
a good letter in the back of a cab but
you can thrust your head out to the hot night street
and catch a glimpse of us all just trying to find
someone to go home with.
jewelry shape shifts to rosaries, glinting like
your mother’s cutlery. but back to you.

moored within me are the bedrocks of
times when we
didn’t have to comb through missed calls and I
could’ve punched you in the face if I wanted but never
did. when I could’ve punched you in the face or put
my palm on your knee
or eyelashes on your shoulder.
when we didn’t have to stare headlong
at the sky, slack-jawed and eyes rolling back, body parts all
loosening in their function. isn’t that what happens when
we do something for the sake
of wonderment? we do it just to have something to awe at.
just to have something besides your moon cheeks to awe at.
what kind of person does it make me to cry at the horizon
or even say the word horizon
or even think about the idea of a horizon? the horizon can only be
seen in the city from high up views so good thing
my apartment building is tall.