Mid-drought, more sun.
When did the tumbler

of water, bedside, fill
with dust? When did you

learn you were a riverbed
no river would touch?

– "Bedside" Andrea Cohen (via trvscnnn)

Imagine a room,
a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.

It was simple to meet you, simple to take your eyes
into mine, saying: these are eyes I have known
from the first… It was simple to touch you
against the hacked background, the grain of what we
had been, the choices, years… It was even simple
to take each other’s lives in our hands, as bodies.

What is not simple: to wake from drowning
from where the ocean beat inside us like an afterbirth
into this common, acute particularity
these two selves who walked half a lifetime untouching—
to wake to something deceptively simple: a glass
sweated with dew, a ring of the telephone, a scream
of someone beaten up far down the street
causing each of us to listen to her own inward scream

knowing the mind of the mugger and the mugged
as any woman must who stands to survive this city,
this century, this life…