When My Poems Go Somewhere Else

when I wake up early

four or five

to write a poem

instead  go into the kitchen

to see if the glue trap

caught a mouse

two babies

tweeting like birds

and when I decide to free the mice

in the basement even though

there is a often the super’s cat downstairs

and when I come upstairs

to listen, are there other mice?

and then coffee and emails

and a chapter in the book I’m editing

Doctrine of Exile in the Kabbalah

imagine those words

and then it is 11 and maybe

there is no poem.

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

2 Comments

  1. Mice? Oy vey. I’ve grown accustomed to big fat rats in the subway and on the streets, but those tiny mice who squeek? I’m as petrified of them as they are of me.

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