Julia Cohen


When Wet


Silk does not weaken, wetted.
Somehow this is a weapon

against not the facet
of elasticity, of muscles
flexed, but our own

duration, pooled.

Bones made of paper, scrolled tight
and tied by a thin blue vein. Ringed
as a tree revealing

weathered years. Maybe
this is the trick: carve nothing

in stone. Set snow or creases
in beeswax.

Not to say, “Take these
as hiccups,” but trails

slashed or waded out.

Past ploddings of an old
stew, options possible into pell-
mell as we speak of fantastic

evolutions. An alternate
route from like from like, divergent

in design as unfettered

Our strings wring out new
to a knot that cannot slip through.