Holes

It’s once a year once again.
The lukewarm walls
cough, eyes beyond
the beige door.
The office lady asks
my name, birthdate.
She ignores
the fear growing
down the hall—I,

a fresh twenty-four, white-
knuckled.
Cells divide,
divide until I can’t feel
anymore. Half-moons rise
in my palms.
Peel off my sweater,
underwear, keep
socks on. I hear rain

when he opens me.
Cold hands like seconds
to the hour.
It’s been black, white, no
and yes, breathe.
My paper gown an orchestra,
a crescendo of No sex,
no sex.

Outside, the parking lot
flowers bend under
the weight of all
my holes.
And I’m still waiting
for the part when he says
I’m unfuckable,
but it never comes.

By Hannah Cohen

Hannah Cohen lives in Virginia and is a MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte. She’s also Poetry Editor of Firefly Magazine. Recent publications and forthcoming work include Public Pool, The Shallow Ends, Vagabond City, Unlost Journal, Severine, and others.