Leveler Poetry Journal
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The Ache Poem


The split hairs of lightning, you
know how it goes: a peek, a point
of view, you fall over. Dust the lungs
for a release of lanterns. A centrifugal baby
or banshee in a shopping cart. Somehow
we’re here to open up. Between library pencils
& a cabin of flush cosmos. Summer screens
grate the rain. Nice bicycle-boat. I want to
avoid something like the allure of that
golf course green, then the toxic ticking sprinklers.
I’ll greet you with a smoking umbrella, wishful.
An open vowel. I skim regret from the lake, fling it
through the tire-swing so nothing stains.
My dress is soaked, like your handlebars are
meant to hold me up
against all the falling apple heirs.




Julia Cohen