Poetry: Selections from Savannah Cooper

Interloper

I caught a wasp this morning, pinned

between a plastic drinking glass and a napkin,

carried her outside like a prisoner, like a queen.

 

It’s funny, I’m really not that person. Insects

that make it into the house don’t make it out,

especially if they have stingers. But something

 

about her crawling every inch of the kitchen

window, seeking a crack that would set her free,

 

made me catch and release. Eventually, the cat

would have killed her, toyed with her maybe,

ripped wings and legs off one by one.

 

But I let her go, set the upside-down glass

on the patio table, tipped it over and darted back

inside, gave her a chance to flee without seeking

 

revenge. Slid the glass into the dishwasher,

the napkin into the trash. The window’s clean,

 

a clear view of the deep purple flowers on the tree

next to the deck, and I could understand her

confusion, how the world she knew seemed so close

 

but she couldn’t find her way back to it, the pane

a near-invisible obstacle, meeting every desperate stab

with firm resistance. I’m not old, but I’m getting sentimental

 

with age, I think, crying at the ends of romance novels

and fumbling with gentler feelings. I used to think

 

myself above everything, and now I just want to be

in the thick of it all, the corny and trite, the unoriginal,

We repeat the same words because they’re true. We hold

 

hands because the feeling of closeness never gets old.

If it does, heaven help me. Or hell or whatever nothing

lies beyond. Prayers were part of the former me,

 

but the farther I get from faith, the closer I feel

to everything.

Synergy, or: Codependence

Last night I buried

my face beneath

your jaw, tried

to memorize every

line of your body

with my eyes closed.

Almost cried, nostalgic

for something right

in front of me. I can’t

be without you, like

a fool, like a lunatic,

and I’m not sorry.

Every night I was

gone, I thought

of you, the warmth

of your body, your

hand reaching out

in the night

to make sure I’m still

there. I’ve never

learned to say

what you make

me feel, vast

and longing, growing

deeper all the time,

till I think it might

swallow me up

like a whale,

and I have never

wanted so much

to be devoured.

Do Not Talk to Me About Heaven

cramped, dark room, her body

fluttering above my head.

 

still there, her hand seemed to wave

 

fingers traced the swelling—

lungs, heart, feet, hands, head.

 

phrases circled—too far, too much,

too severe, no chance.

 

awake until four a.m. writing letters

in the dark.

 

five months. hidden on a side street.

wish the darkness was total.

 

emptiness stepping into

the silent hallway. a sudden chasm.

 

left town for two days, came home

empty-handed.

 

bleeding, milk leaking, tears

in the shower, in bed, sitting on the floor

in the corner, staring out

at blossoming pink flowers

in the backyard.

 

not a mother, that’s the problem. new

self built around this thing created

from nothing, creature that made me sick

and turned my thoughts and carved

a space in my heart to nestle into.

 

do not talk to me about heaven

 

sometimes smile and pretend as though

there is anything on the other side

of this, as though the old me

will suddenly stand up and take my life

from my hands.

 

inside shrinking, shuddering, curled

into a position not unlike hers

the last time. dig a hole and slide

into it. keep digging.

catapult bricks through windows,

set buildings on fire, tear down

walls

and scream.

Ode to the Fast and Furious Franchise

Never loved cars but worshipped action

since age eight (one of the few good things

my father gave me). But more than that—

 

the feeling of building a family from pieces,

from the ground up, not by blood, or just blood,

but stumbling across one another, pulling strangers

 

into a bond that stretches across decades and counting.

Knowing no one’s ever really gone, but could return

at any moment, engines revving and eyes liquid-bright.

 

The simple stupidity of it all, the unreality, but also

the beating heart of every flying car and heist, every

illogical jump and flight to space in antique diving suits.

 

I do this for you because I love you, because we

have found our way into a family by touch, by tone,

stronger than any ties. If you call, I will answer.

 

And deep down I just want to feel that certainty,

that the ones I love would cross borders and tunnel

beneath crumbling earth for me, because I would

do the same.

Remnants

We saw a dead bird on our walk

the other day. A blue jay once, now

a lump of blood and feathers.

 

There’s something exhausting

about death, in all its permutations.

I never learned to accept it, only

 

to see the end as yet another beginning,

a land to be conquered. I come, after all,

from a long line of thieves and murderers,

 

more focused on the glory of victory

than how it is seized. My dog sniffed

the dead bird with curiosity, but I see

 

every death as a tragedy. Every squirrel

crushed on the road, every corpse

of a deer along the highway, each silent

 

ambulance and plain obituary—I feel

nothing casual. I grew up running

from death, leaning all my weight

 

into the hope of forever, but these days

eternity feels far more terrifying than quiet.

 

The next day, the bird was gone. Stolen

by a stray cat or cleaned up by the caretaker

 

in his red truck, who knows. Only a spot

of blood remained, dried and nearly blended

 

into the concrete.

Savannah Cooper (she/her) is a leftist bisexual agnostic and a slow-ripening disappointment to her Baptist parents. You can almost always find her at home, reading a sad novel or cuddling with her dogs and cat. A Pushcart Prize nominated poet, her work has been previously published in Parentheses Journal, Midwestern Gothic, Mud Season Review, and multiple other publications.