Independence Day
We wave
at the floats
that go past,
at the marching
promised lands,
at the flagging
ponies, at the
ghosts we won’t
let go of–
God,
I forgive you
for letting
us invent you.
The Longest Day
I miss her simply.
She, alone, without
fanfare, companioned
me. Only she, beside
this green-tossed
sea, could say
we swam inside
it once. One
life is
too much.
Firing Squad
In our line of work,
three men must fire,
because we have three
women to go home to,
three bedstands with lamps,
three shaving mirrors,
and three straight razors
to convince it was
another man’s bullet
that hit its mark.
Beginning (Again)
Small funerals
may resume.
Forgive me
for not
(under
the weight
of this
casket)
clapping.
Andrea Cohen's most recent poetry collection is Everything (Four Way Books, 2021.) She directs the Blacksmith House Poetry Series in Cambridge, Massachusetts. More poems, etc.: andreacohen.org