Someone was talking
quietly of lanterns—

but loud enough
to light my way.






the branch
as gallows

makes it





It looked like something
you could pick up, that

dagger of light.
He left it there,

not trusting what
he might do with it.




Summer, Lake

You can’t fish
for light, or

you can, but
you have to

throw it back.




Fellow Traveler

She went everywhere
with an empty suitcase.

You never know when
you’ll need to leave

swiftly with nothing.




Street Corner

He asked me to hold
something. I think

what I held
was his believing

he’d be back.





There must some-
where be a forest

that’s lost its
voice, which goes

deeper and deeper
into itself, its

trees never
seen again.




Andrea Cohen’s poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, The Threepenny Review,  and elsewhere. Four Way Books will publish her fifth collection, Unfathoming, next year. Other recent books include Furs Not Mine and Kentucky Derby. She directs the Blacksmith House Poetry Series in Cambridge, Massachusetts and the Writers House at Merrimack College .
Read poetry by Andrea Cohen previously appearing in

Header photo of forest with light by valiunic, courtesy Pixabay.

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