Rebecca Cook

The weekend was awful. Well, Sunday was awful. I had, I suppose, a mini bipolar meltdown. A spin-down. My centrifuge dropped me down its middle into my foggy, overspent brain and just spat me out. This may have been drug-induced, but not completely. Over cards Saturday night, my husband inadvertently insulted me about something—my rudeness, utter lack of manners. And a close friend echoed and encouraged/agreed with him in this. I know they figured that this would never have bothered me…

I don't know exactly what happens when I lose contact with time, the flow of time. I feel out of focus, disconnected. What have I done? I don't know. No, that's not true. What I have done is taken a deep dive into reading/listening to books. I guess it's been, what, 3 weeks ago? I started checking books out of the library again. I reread Then She Was Gone (best narrator ever!) and The Girl on the Train. I also bought…

I read something today, a woman speaking of writing about her days, and if she didn't write about them, she'd begin to feel as though they weren't really happening. I think perhaps I am the opposite. I have been so busy, so satisfyingly busy, emersed. but really, is that true? It is more true to say that we have had an insane amount of shit going down, but that I am happy. content. I have a sense of wellbeing. even when…

friday i got into my swimsuit and got into the water. it was of course, glorious. i intend to get into the water again. this is my local public pool. it is free, indoors, and super clean, but the locker room is a little creepy. when you get out of the shower (there are only 2), anybody who just walks in can see you in all your glory. so i either need a small robe (bulky!), or will have to use…

one day while fishing for the cauliflower i found the baby i had forgotten it, tucked safe in the freezer my little mummy, little mommy's boy one blue eye frozen open... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

the evil eye of the daisy 2 pregnancy test and the rise in my center the pressing outward of tiny, unseen hands this child will lift me we will float on the pool of clear water in god's chest we will hold our noses and dive under I will take the child and press its face down and down to the floor of my body and hold it there and stop what happened before before it begins before that desire of…

because my dream of the shower house don't ask me their hands are too small their eyes will not open they are sealed-up shut a purring sound is furring up the edges of the photograph where fifteen pairs of shoes are toed-to-the-line Margaret and Mary Ann whistling just like the boys oh! how starched our undercarriages, how immovable our curls, oh! our bastillion brassieres. someone hurls a pair of batons going brilliant going bang blistering the night air those of us…

shrinking up, aka i would give up my singing voice for a cig the absurd shoe in the absurd room the absurd effort of cheer my angry foot, my swollen calf, it’s a long way to fetch him from his moldering place, his such-a-small room in such-a walled in house. i am a scurrying mouse, arranging the cake, the candles, small plates of sandwiches, fishing through the ancient drawers in my father’s house while my brother sits silent in his chair.…

the miscarriage and what came after the baby fell out so I put it back in to grow it to size to correct the stitches I dropped I put in another sleeve I lined fifty-five buttons up the... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)

the abortion and the book of rules, aka why a fish was never a baby I thought I’d keep the abortion in a cup, a jar with holes poked in the lid so the moon shines through at night, so the thing will turn to a fish and... (contact me to hear the rest of poem--rebeccacookwriter@gmail.com)