Lyndsey Cohen


You fall into my lap in one hundred pieces. I keep them in a jar by the bed. The jar I made for you. Sometimes when I go out I take parts of you with me. The butcher asks me how you are doing. I say fine thank you. He doesn’t know I have your smile in my pocket. The tailor asks me what you have been up to. I tell her you’ve been busy. You are all over the place these days. She doesn't know I keep your tongue in my wallet. When I see people that look sad I give them a part of you. There is a lady uptown with your eyes. A little boy down the block has your hands. It is the least I can do. At night I dump you out on the bed. I run my hands over your parts and imagine what it would be like to put you back together. What it would be like to curl your hair into my palms.



1. In each word there burns a wick.

2. Discovering the work is both a miracle and wound, like the miracle of the wound.

3. Gesture of fire.