red lemons
|
My friend kisses
a silver Jesus hanging below his throat—. My sister’s friend wore a pond like a crown; he handwrote her a letter before fading beneath water. If god were a spider I’d toss the Big Book at it. In the sober house I puked bricks for an entire year, stacked them until they took shape of a normal kind of me. I’m soft as tomentum. There’s a woman I’ll always love in a cave’s-mouth- sipping-moonlight kind of way. Her face is a guillotine. How I love sharpness. There are no clouds swollen with souls in outer space. An artist carved the underworld onto stone. My niece draws lemons in red marker. |
|
Sean Shearer grew up in New Jersey. He earned a BA in Creative Writing from Hampshire College, and an MFA in Poetry from the University of Virginia. Sean is the recipient of a 2020 Pushcart Prize for poetry, and his poems have been published in Beloit Poetry Journal, Boulevard, Copper Nickel, jubilat, and New England Review, among other journals and magazines. He is the founder and book designer for BOAAT Press. His website is www.iamseanshearer.com.