your hair feels like drowning birds
which sounds

I like it. Your leg
has a line on it, and I like that too.

You and I
both breathe around the same time,
searching the yard for

whichever rock says
it’s good to see you.”

They smell like water, the way books
smell like water, the way

it rains in our sleep.


After the car wash
we traded stories about coffee
under high ceilings
bored like we met
waiting to take a walk

so we took a walk, past
20% of the town
in that time of year and evening
that’s all dead squirrel parts
& Miller flavored oxygen

on our way to the bridge
where we used to burn
our tongues on ancient
and boiling Cokes
in the mostly summer

and you told me you hated
my cigarettes but missed me
very much and I tried to say
the same thing back but
couldn’t stop coughing.

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MAX COHEN is one of many many poets in Chicago. She got her MFA in poetry from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, and her work has been published in Sixth Finch, Ninth Letter, and other, non-number based journals. She doesn’t do much else.