Savannah Cooper

Coin Toss

She says we could press our skin
together, leave a mark in the crease
of an arm, the bend of a knee. 

We could buy tickets to somewhere
else for a weekend, fly in a crowded
cabin, or better yet take a train, see 

the backside of every small town.
Forget what clouds look like, remember
every time we lift our heads. Stand 

on a rocky beach and look for life
in tide pools. She says we could write
over old memories, scribble them out 

like a ruined page, take new photos, walk
the balance beam of then and now. Meet
again in a bar, too loud to hear the music, 

catch the eye of a stranger and pretend
to look like someone else. Be my mirror,
she says, be the roots, a tether to all

the way back when. Know every line,
each step and turn. Coin toss and we drift
away, gunshot and we come back together 

like magnets, two ends of a tin can phone,
you and me and all the weight between.

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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 a novel or cuddling with her dogs and cat. A Pushcart Prize nominated poet, her work has been previously published in Parentheses Journal, Midwestern Gothic, Mud Season Review and numerous other publications.