Ben Cooper

Mayfly

On the shore—the other     one—no one
is listening. The spring     almost failed

us again, too timid     to make hush
of the leaves. We can use     the paper terror of tentacles

to tie us     together until the cephalopod dots
don’t fit anymore. The shape     of my body no longer

in your mind, the nothing     I can’t help but become, the silence
the ocean had no choice     but to make. The wind afraid

of being rude to the waves it made, doesn’t          listen. Can’t you
make sense of this sky     full of wings—these wings

so full of sky.

Afterimage

I wish I could tell you every poem
is trying to be the sunrise or sun-

set, but I can’t anymore. I have
seen some of the finches become

the wind—some, the stones beneath
the tree. The sick-sweet smell of the dogwood

bloom outside my window seeps
through the curtains where my cat thins himself

on the only stream of light. Last night
I unfocused my eyes and lifted

my head toward the hole I’ve been seeing
in the moon. I steadied myself and spun

until the Earth pulled itself to meet me and I
finally saw the bright between

the stars—every shadow,
every shade.

Ben Cooper (email: Ben.Cooper.Poetry@gmail.com) is a poet studying creative writing at Salisbury University. He is the winner of the 2025 AWP Intro Journals Award, works as a Managing Editor at 149 Review, and is published or forthcoming in Colorado Review, The Penn Review, The Shore, Atlanta Review, Saranac Review, Frontier Poetry, Rust & Moth, and more.