Poor Claudia published poetry, prose and conversations online and in print from 2009 to 2018.

Sarah Cook

Five Poems

  • You're just an object to me
  • Dreams don’t always come when you fall asleep
  • You're just an object to me
  • I’ve got my pride, and my time isn’t free
  • You're just an object to me

You're just an object to me

It’s almost as if
something needs to happen
in order for me to
love someone.

My house is definitely sicker
than yours.

Things quickly seem wrong
regardless of whether they’re
happening/not happening.
Killing is almost like kissing
when you realize that letters
are not that far from other letters.
I dream about such similarities,
how easy it would be to just
call you something else.

The thing about dreaming is
you don’t always have to be asleep.
One time, I did something wrong
I disappointed my parents I aged
rapidly like a broken piano I pulled
the emergency break and kept
driving I noticed you responding
to any word I said loud enough
I woke up.

Dreams don’t always come when you fall asleep

I prefer not to know about food ahead of time. This requires turning off all instant notifications and learning to compartmentalize attention. Uncomfortable pressure often involves nothing more than your head; it’s the body that could use more care, that could often use a good pluck in the face.The body, placed in a small grid, which I like to call a city. The city, made of “markets” that sell things, which sometimes taste like childhood.Today I compiled a list of names that told me absolutely nothing. This is the part where I go home, pretend to like flowers more than words, consider that there are actual bones in the tiniest of little toes. Often, it means doing a little math: learning how to see the water in ice, learning how to break liquid; that the body is one giant waterfall; that the body is a fish, no, a stick on the ground.

You're just an object to me

The last thing I want to do
is talk about myself.
And the very last thing
is to tell you I’m a magician,
that I’m a giant man
beneath these soft gestures,
that I could be a nature man,
roaming at night in some
frivolous getup.
But it’s not true: the last place
you’ll find me is in nature; my
muscles are too big, my pride
too costly.
It’s shocking how often people think
they love the sky, that it’s not just
a wall of blue yarn, a big dumb pile
of string someone forgot to tie.

I’ve got my pride, and my time isn’t free

For my next trick I will fool you into a house for a year, into touching something even if you think it’s not there. Lately my teeth feel slightly undone and I just hope this house doesn’t fill up with niceties. Doesn’t rot my brain. For example, the word “rain” clawed down on the rooftop last night but eventually just finished my homework, snuck through the cracks around the window and drenched me in the shape of a commissioned portrait, outlining my clothes better than my body.This house doesn’t even work, this rain isn’t even working properly.I want you to understand that roses are the dumbest flower, that numbers are often a symbol more than a quantity. Let me show you all the ones that have nothing to do with math. It’s dumber than it sounds.I folded a paper towel into my beer, folded my beer into little origami flowers. Anything is capable of being "good."

You're just an object to me

Always, I find you having the same conversation repeatedly: how the world is a floor, how words all mean the same thing (ground, floor, etc.). You look stunning with the earth hovering below, I could tackle you and just assume that the surrounding environment will eventually bring us to a halt.

Sarah Cook

Sarah Cook's recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in SWINE, Phoebe, and metazen, among others. A Meadowed King is newly out from dancing girl press.