I could never compete with you
Lightfoot, skipping across the moss
and stone.
I crashed through tangled woods,
...
Grackle,
You’ve murdered brother crow
And stolen his totem spot
Atop our local mythology.
...
The sea turns youth into an aged thing:
Wood worked by Protean hands, strong lines
Changed into faded and level grain.
White rings surround a browned
...
After the apple’s plucked from the tree, and upkicked clay dust settles,
Two lovers sit: somber, engaged with shame, drinking bodies on a higher level.
Running from calamity, fugitives from languor and bliss,
...
Cairn-filled, rock crag, grackle-sound in sunken stonework.
Lost are bearings, lost the sure footings I set
Down before this: a broken quarry
Chock-full of broken
...
The key is to get all things plumb and level.
All that sand down and bevel
-ing is prelude to the squaring,
Though it’s only natural
...
And then the flags were raised
Blades of grass catching the wind.
And we gathered underneath, each
A yeoman beneath his standard.
...
After the Thanksgiving
Meal, we pressed the cane.
The stripped stalks were cut;
...
Ross Cohen graduated from Eckerd College in 2008 with a degree in English Literature. He currently teaches high school English in Alamo, Texas. Ross occasionally reads his poems at Steel City Coffee House in Pheonixville, Pennsylvania where he can also be seen performing songs. Ross cites T.S. Eliot, Seamus Heaney, Ted Hughes, and Leonard Cohen as his primary influences.)
Daphne And Apollo
I could never compete with you
Lightfoot, skipping across the moss
and stone.
I crashed through tangled woods,
Ripping roots from the earth,
Snapping branches, clearing a path by force.
You were a speck in my eye,
Just visible behind the vines;
A mirage on an empty plain.
I could never see you directly,
I could never sleep where you had lain.
I had grown accustomed to the dip
And dive of your back cutting
Through the clearing where,
Panting and parched, we stopped
For a fatal moment.
You turned. The war
Between flame and stream,
Between you and me,
Swelled to crisis:
Your skin cracks and grays
Like cooling embers; the ground surrenders
To toe-roots; thighs stiffen and petrify;
Bark works its way up
To the bole-knot in your stomach.
Shoulders and arms explode
Into clouds of flickering green and gold.
Soft shrapnel litters the ground.
Sitting beneath the sole tree
In the forest’s barren place,
I sift through the leaves
For the memory of your face.