It was born of a spark it never knew,
and raised alone indoors.
Like a bear in winter
it must dream cave dreams.
Sage of interiors, it might travel
in a trance to other realms.
Even in rest
its vigilance can never falter.
Even in paradise
it would be striving, blind.
A girl bends over a sewing machine,
her stitches tiny and flawlessly even.
Imagine never taking a minute’s rest
for decades, then resting forever.
“The Heart” is reprinted from Pool.
Sarah Cohen’s poems and other writings have been published in The Paris Review, Threepenny Review, Boston Review, and many others. She teaches English at the University of Washington and lives in Shoreline.