Sunday Showcase

No. 16 - Noa Cohen

Noa Cohen

This week on the Sunday Showcase, we’re sharing two poems by Noa Cohen, who is also a contributor in our first issue. Noa’s poetry is direct and lucid and vulnerable, which makes it so relatable and easy to love. Thank you, Noa, for sharing your work with us.

About the poet:
Noa Cohen grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, and made Aliyah on her own at age nineteen. She spent her high school years in a writing magnet program where writing became an integral part of how she interacts with the world. Just before graduating, she self-published her collection of poetry, On Israel’s Ripe Horizon. Noa dreams of a future in Tel Aviv filled with many long days of writing, a dog curled up by her side.

Alongside the magazine, Sunday Showcase provides additional opportunities for emerging artists and writers to share their work and gain exposure. There are no themes or deadlines, simply email us your best work for a chance to get featured across all of our channels. We accept writing of any genre and visual art of all mediums.

HOW TO SUBMIT

Send submissions to writehausmagazine@gmail.com. Be sure to include:

  • “Sunday Showcase” in the subject line
  • Your name
  • Your writing or artwork
  • A short bio
  • A headshot
  • Links to your instagram or website

Blessed Be This Body

After Levi Cain

By Noa Cohen

All five feet and one
inch of it. Just enough to be
blessed. Hair unplucked, currents
of cellulite trickling
down hips. Blessed. These toes
blistered from so many miles
of walking in the wrong shoes.
Blessed. These curls
spiraling down my shoulders, frizzing
in the rain. Blessed. This skin
collecting color in the sun,
clearing in all that is bright.
This back, weeks of aching
from sleeping wrong or the weight
of carrying what is too heavy.
Blessed. In elementary school,
I would daydream my thighs
gone. Now, I let the lucky ones
pray to them. Blessed.
This stomach, not
flat enough. Now,
I feed it anyway, keep it
full. Blessed. The stone glittering
from my belly button.
These breasts
passed down by my mother
and her mother
and hers, heavy
and too big for me,
just right. I squeeze
them when I can’t breathe.
Blessed. My lungs
for breathing anyway
when air seems distant.

 

Lemonmoon

By Noa Cohen

Tonight, the moon
is a lemon wedge. Soft and yellow,
you want to squeeze it over gin
or bright summer vegetables (heirloom
tomatoes, corn, avocado, arugula, mint).
You want to bite right into it,
cringe a little at the tartness, the drop of juice
splashed in your eye.
More than anything, you wish
to see the lemon’s life in reverse,
a video played backwards.
To watch it grow whole again, un-
plucked from its tree, clinging
to branch, shrinking
ever smaller,
ever greener,
shrinking until it is
only a seed
amongst the stars.

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