My face in the mirror’s oval is the only stranger I’ll see today. That’s about the shape of things. Each day inside my house: rectangular. Nights go round. A red sunset smears itself flat over the final day of a shapeless year. Let forward be a shape. Also, tomorrow. Hope, like the bubble around the universe, is difficult to draw.
Susan Cohen is the author of two full-length collections: Throat Singing and A Different Wakeful Animal. Her recent poems can be found in 32 Poems, Catamaran, Los Angeles Review, PANK, Prairie Schooner, Southern Review, Tar River Poetry, and Terrain.org, where they won the 11th Annual Poetry Prize. Also an award-winning science writer, she lives in Berkeley, California