Amelia Cohen-Levy, 10/12

Still Life with Pitcher and Knife

Spring pierced the mulch, sudden
as double-edged daffodils.

With the gracelessness of ice water,
your palms pressed against
the magnolia blossom etched between my thighs,

eager as a tousled sparrow
coming out of the wind.

And I am still mourning
the blue-spotted egg

crushed in the grass.



Giving Alms to the Birds

The swiftness of falling is a suffering
no one knows better than birds. Blur and flap of flight, winging and soaring,
that leads to the next rush of air and the current after—

Birds are used to this; they do not expect
the beak-breaking crash. And we turn to each other
because we know it is unnatural:

All the birds dropping from the sky.

And I dream
a thousand cranes with great gray wings
rising and falling. I almost feel

the rush of their feathers tickling my nose,
brushing against the sweep of my eyelids.



Amelia Cohen-Levy lives in Northern Virginia. She studied in Houston, Berkeley, and Washington DC. Her poetry has appeared in Tablet Magazine, The Ilanot Review, 580 Split, and elsewhere. She collects dust bunnies, with the current favorites being named Antigone, Enkidu, and Harry (though Enkidu is edging out the others). 

Promote. Poetry.
FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestBlogger PostTumblrGoogle GmailLineYahoo MailRediff MyPageKindle ItGoogle BookmarksShare