Lisa Janice Cohen

Navigation Error

A loose halyard startles the mast, clamors
for freedom. You point true. I am bound

to steer by outdated charts, missing
markers, burned out buoys; a soggy

Sisyphus, treading water. Naturally
farsighted, you never squint to force

the horizon into focus, red lights
and green wink easily against the gray.

When you salvaged me, I was mired
in mud and seaweed. I'm polished now,

shiny as teak beneath seven layers
of varnish. I refuse to take

my bearings; this patch of sea
no different from the rest. I'd rather

not know how far I've deviated
off course. There is lost and there is lost.

Reservations

I've checked the flight times,
feel like Lady Macbeth
washing hands. Unhealthy,
this obsession with ghosts
and death, weapons smuggled
on board, engine failure.

You recede down the jetway,
smaller and younger. If you slip
your hand into the flight attendant's,
I will break protocol, run straight
through security for a reassuring
kiss, a final systems check.

The lights are all green. You roll
your eyes when I remind you.
Be polite. Brush your teeth.
I love you. An orange
jumpsuited man herds me
off the runway. Hey lady,

are you crazy? He stands
in a concrete pentagram,
fluorescent hands conjuring birds
in and out of the sky. You flicker
across the event horizon
and I say, yes. Yes I am.

Unfinished Conversations

There is no failure to communicate,
only the language of arched eyebrows,
elaborate shrugs, no different
from conversations with ears and tails,

hackles and throaty snarls. We are pack.
Still submissive, you bare throat
and belly for a little while longer
even as you flash a silver-tracked

smirk; pointed canines gleam. Your paws
eclipse mine, I trip over sneakers strewn
in your slipstream. You lope; awkward
stride lengthening as you pull ahead.

The distance increases between us.
I wait for the full moon and howl.

Heirloom Varieties

On your bedside table
seed catalogs flirt
with manuals on container
gardening and a brochure
for recycled composters.

Your ancestors were never
farmers. Seven generations
back past doctors and lawyers,
pharmacists, merchants, rabbis.
The closest anyone got to dirt;

an undertaker. You dream
of cold frames and the louvered
windows of a greenhouse, content
yourself with timers and soaker
hoses, miracle-gro, blueberry mulch.

August heat wilts me. Stalks
climb over the plant stakes, inch
closer to the sun while I reach
for shade and fresh ice. You sweat
over weeds and aphids, invasive

roots from our neighbor's hollyhocks.
The nights cool off to ninety. I ache
for fall. You bring me a glass
of chilled chardonnay, the unblemished
round of a single perfect tomato.