Perdu • National Poetry Month

Perdu  

I no longer appear

in photos. No one pictures me

in the moment. Poolside, red

plastic cup in hand, smiling faces,

a dripping child on a grandmother’s

damp lap, squinting into the sun. Bride

and groom in white, surrounded by

well-dressed pastel-flocked crowd

on the dark parquet dance floor. Groaning

picnic table, red and white checkered

tablecloth, tanned patriarch flanked by

children and grandchildren biting into

crispy black hot dogs, crunchy pickles,

sticky pink watermelon. Around

the dining table, goofing in the mashed

potatoes, a selfie with Dad. Adorable,
adoring stealth shots: watching tv, nothing

special, Happy Days reruns, teens in

identical superhero t-shirts, stuck in time.

There are no gaps, no holes,

no negative space unfilled.

I am not redacted.

I am naught.

by Chris Fow Cohen

with permission of the author

Squirrel • National Poetry Month

Thank you for spending National Poetry Month here with us at Hedgehog Lover. Keep reading poetry, keep sharing poetry, and keep loving poetry!

Squirrel

It's not a dignified end, dangling

from my fingers, held fast with

a candy wrapper salvaged from

my car floor. I found no napkin, so

I improvised, judging the safety

of the road while drudging about

for a makeshift shroud.

                                     She is small,

light, and I whisper a prayer. No,

more of an apology: had it been me,

I would have stopped, she would have

made it across. When one stops,

others follow, whether out of shame

or habit or kindness I never can tell.

I lay her gently at the curb, tuck

the wrapper under her, too small for a shroud.

A prayer, unbidden, escapes my lips:

for her, for me, for the careless driver

who brought us here, together, on the side

of the now-quiet road. It’s too late for

the peace I beg for in my fervent whisper.

It’s too late for us both.

By Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission

Stopping the clock • National Poetry Month

Stopping the clock


I didn’t think the pendulum
was so heavy and cold. It wants to 
finish its arc, but I hold on and 
it clunks against the oak
cabinet. The weights are low, but there 
is no need for two fluid pulls
to bring them to the top. The small 
black cat sniffs at the still
metal. Wrinkling his nose at
the cabinet’s musty smell, he does 
not linger as I buff
my fingerprints from the brass 
with my shirtsleeve. The pendulum 
knocks against the back as I latch
the door. I stand up, press my forehead 
against the cool glass, closing my eyes 
against the fading hand-painted numbers. 
I know what time it is.

by Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission

At Night • National Poetry Month

At night

I roll over in bed and face

your neck, seeing in the green

light of the digital clock the curve

of your shoulder where I

used to bury my eyes. My ears

ring from the void your voice

leaves, and the silence stings

like a sweaty palm striking

my temple.

                    Wasn’t there a time

when I could stroke the shadow

of your shoulder blade? Even in

your sleep you’d stretch like a cat,

and the comforter would slide down

to your waist. Now just my glance

wedges the blankets under your chin

as you sink noiselessly under

the comforter.

by Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission

3 am, outside Tonopah • National Poetry Month

I hope you liked this year's selection of poems for National Poetry Month. Don't worry, we won't just stop cold turkey — so be sure to check back and perhaps discover a new gem on this blog. If you find a poem you like, send it to me, and I'll share it with the rest of the class.

3 am, outside Tonopah

All I can see on the black ribbon

of Highway 10 is the fine mist

of sand in my headlights.

There used to be mountains

on the horizon. Dawn will return

them in time.

                          The light

in the empty parking lot of Joe

and Tonopah Sue’s shuts off

as I pass. The radio plays

only soft static, but it’s more pleasant

than the thoughts in my head.

When the static becomes tedious, I sing

“Maybe Later.” If you were

here, you would hum the bass

line and — Stop. I will not play

this game. Oh, god, this is when I wish

I listened to myself.

                                     In the dark, no one can see

me let go. My sobs come out

of the place in my chest

you used to be. This is not

the poem I wanted to write you.

by Chris Fow Cohen

Shared with the author's permission

The Art of Sleep • National Poetry Month

The Art of Sleep

In the crowded bed, hemmed in by
my husband, his hand resting
on my hip, his fingers softly flexing
in slumber, you’re here, I’m here.
When he moves, he takes the blankets,
but not my personal Patience
and Fortitude, tails draped across
my legs. Sighing, shifting, stretching,
pressing, calescent, discouraging
desertion. In repose,

the nighttime mandala

recasts itself, but the nucleus remains,
awake, the imperfection
in the family isha.

by Chris Fow Cohen

Shared with the author's permission

The valley is on fire

Years ago, I watched news coverage of a California wildfire on television and asked myself, "What would I take with me in a fire?" Of course, I had to up the ante, so I tossed in a little more tension. This was the resulting poem. 

It's actually an amazing mental exercise: if all of your peeps and pets were safe, what belongings would you take with you? Set your own boundaries (car or carry, etc.) and answer the question yourself. Maybe the answer is your next poem.


The valley is on fire

and it comes as no surprise

to me.  I grew fond of the dense

grainy sunset, and the ashes

on the porch were a welcome

sight.  They helped me think.

But my eyelid still twitches

when I get the empty boxes from the trunk

of my Chevy, and when the cat scratches

her litter I freeze, sure

it is your tires crunching up the gravel

driveway.  I’m not a coward, but I know

my strengths.  You are not among

them.  So I pack first the things

for which I would burn — Mother’s

jewelry, the cat’s medicine, my

notebooks.

The wind picks up.  Now I smell

the fur of those to small to outrun

the quick snapping flames.

I lift the drawers

from the dresser, turning them

upside down and giving them a shake

or two — not because they

need it, but because I need

the finality of a shake.  You have

taught me well. 

And when the litterbox

is stacked on the Samsonite in the back seat

and my galoshes are wedged next

to the spare tire and my ten favorite

books are tucked in with the linen

and Nana’s typewriter presses against

the picnic basket below the cat and carrier

up front next to me, I’ll start

out of the valley, before the fire reaches

what was always your home anyway.

- by Chris Fow Cohen

© Chris Fow Cohen. All rights reserved.