We Hear by Corey Cook

whoosh, whoosh of unborn
baby's heartbeat - only sound
we hear for days, weeks


Corey Cook, New Hampshire, USA

Chicken Shit by Corey Cook

She calls & asks me to come
over, the girl who wears light
blue Spandex shorts 3 days
a week, who wears a dark pink
shirt that is too big for her
2 days a week & no bra. The
girl who bent down to pick up
an eraser that Brian intentionally
knocked off his desk, the girl
we all want to dance with, the girl
we all want. She calls me
& I bike there - peddle as fast
as I possibly can. She meets me
at the door & leads me across
the lawn, through the barn, up
to the hayloft. We take turns
swinging on a rope tied to a beam,
swing through the dim, dusty
expanse. We shoot a couple
baskets & she takes a seat on a hay
bale. She takes a seat & I get
the sneaking suspicion that she
has rehearsed this. She takes a seat
& pats the space next to her with
an expectant look on her face -
dust trembles in the half-light. "I
really need to go home" I say
& leave her poised on that hay bale.


Corey Cook, New Hampshire, USA

Haiku by Corey Cook

grey morning -
goldfinch substitutes
for the sun


Corey Cook, New Hampshire, USA.

For the Girl Who Had a Crush on Me in Middle School by Corey Cook

The girl with the long stringy
hair, the long greasy hair. The girl
who wore ill fitting, faded clothes
-clothes that had been passed down
& passed down again. The girl
who had a crush on me & wrote
me love letters, letters that said "I
saw you at the tennis court Tuesday
& wanted to walk over, but my father
was home." The girl whose father
had a sailboat stocked with food
& supplies in his backyard, whose
father sent her out for firewood half
-naked at three in the morning, whose
father held the entire family hostage
with a shotgun. The girl who needed
me, needed someone. The girl I didn't
acknowledge until now.


Corey Cook, New Hampshire, USA