poetry by savannah cooper

Subtle Thorns

Pulling weeds in the yard, I cut my hands. Small 
slices, little more than papercuts, stinging with every 
touch. A metaphor, perhaps, for how harmless-looking 

things hurt or how creating something lovely or simply 
tidy is not without its scars. Really, just a story about how 
I think I can get away without wearing gardening gloves, 

believe that which doesn’t look sharp cannot possibly cut, 
refuse to learn differently. My mother has stepped on dead 
bees twice walking barefoot in her yard, has had to pry 

stingers from her skin, and still walks in the grass shoeless. 
I don’t come from hardy stock. We’re the ones that evolution 
likes to leave behind. I know I would survive no apocalypse, 

which is why I’ve always feared the end of the world. Let 
zombies take me, I probably had it coming, wandering alone 
after dark beyond the walls or, far more likely, drinking dirty 

water in a desperate fit of thirst. The fact that my genes 
have lived this long makes me believe I must have something 
to offer humanity, but I scraped my leg falling up the steps 

leading out of the garage, and I forgot to put on bug spray 
before walking in the evening. Too often I find a bruise 
with no memory of its origin, sometimes find blood 

on my finger and can’t recall the source of the cut. 
Band-aids are a rush job in this house, a desperate clawing 
through the medicine cabinet while holding the offending 

digit in the air. Maybe that’s it then—stubborn survivability. 
I keep going because it doesn’t occur to me not to. Wash off 
my hand and forget each wound until it stings. 

Savannah Cooper (she/her) is a leftist bisexual agnostic and a slow-ripening disappointment to her Baptist parents. You can almost always find her at home, reading or cuddling with her dogs and cat. A Pushcart Prize nominated poet, her work has previously appeared in Parentheses Journal, indicia, and Bear Review, among numerous other publications.