Irene Cooper

even my dreams are over the constant state of anxiety

even my dreams are over the constant state of anxiety is a collection bound by pulse and impulse, bent on giving body to the amorphic, and buoyed by the insistent beauty of a damaged planet. not only might we sing about the dark times, these poems agree, but also laugh as we struggle to find the light switch. with formal variation and sharp, innovative language that toggles from the lyric to the surreal, these poems awaken a new dreamscape in this age of anxiety, not unlike a deep and unexpected conversation with a stranger at a bar or in transit—intimate, funny, darkedged, unsettling, and strangely life-affirming.

“the blurb is a concrete and legible token of esteem and good old bonhomie among poets who comprise an intimate and intense sector of the literary landscape, and also presents the existential challenge of requesting—often of much-admired unfamiliars—not only to be seen, but deeply read, assessed, and responded to by poets who already have a lot on their plate, what with student theses and laureateships and serving as witness to the world and paying the bills, and so this poet has weaseled out of the asking and instead will use this space to extend appreciation to poets and readers of poetry everywhere, you’re the best.” —irene cooper

Cover design: Margaret Buchanan
Interior design: Beth Ford
ISBN: 978-1-950404-14-8
Paperback: $18
Publication date: September 2024

Irene Cooper’s writings appear in Beloit Poetry, Denver Quarterly, The Rumpus, Witness, and elsewhere. She wrote the feminist noir novel Found; Committal, poet-friendly spyfy about family; and spare change, finalist for the Stafford/Hall award for poetry. Irene teaches at OSU-Cascades, is a founder of The Forge writing program, facilitates creative opportunities in community, and currently serves as an editor for Airlie Press. She lives in the middle of Oregon.

Excerpt from even my dreams are over the constant state of anxiety

i am always losing my religion, leo says to his seatmate, just to see it pop ‘round again. he lays his hand upon the white fist on the retractable arm. catastrophe trots through this life, one right after another, kicking up the dust, we can’t breathe. but there, on the ground, something moves, something glints in the sun. we stoop, we pick it up. pocket it for later. the plane drops in altitude. leo looks past his seatmate’s capellini pomodoro, gone cold and gelatinous on the tray table. out the sliver of window, south america rises like a page of crumpled newspaper in a gale. the sapphire of the shallowing atlantic streams beneath them, crashes opalescent at the barreling shore. seatmate slaps the shade shut. leo closes his eyes. the pilot rights and lands the aircraft. passengers breathe into their phones, proceed to the terminal, retrieve bags or file claims for missing luggage and are waved into taxis. it would be dinner time soon. so much beauty in the arrival, in the departure, but of course, it is difficult to remain astonished at every middling moment of the disaster.

even my dreams are over the constant state of anxiety

i was scheduled for a bar shift tho i didn’t work there didn’t know it was a bar thought it was a monday night anyway not a busy thursday i’d been on the phone an old faded yellow phone that hung on the wall and had a spiral cord someone was telling me i’d inherited or won a house possibly a lot of money i had to hang up orders were coming in service had started i gestured with my right index finger in the air you know like i’ll be with you in one minute a woman wanted a dewar’s latina i said could you tell me what that is she said it’s dewar’s scotch with salty tears that come in a tiny blue bird bottle labelled lagrimas i looked everywhere the bar was a mess i thought if i’d known i had a shift i would’ve stocked the glassware at least there was ice but why was there ice that was weird the line at the bar grew the manager was upset but i was doing my best and anyway this shitshow had nothing to do with me