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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.
Picture
Col. Henry Stuart Wortley. Moonbeam on the Waters, about 1863. Albumen silver print. Courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum.

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.
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  • Home
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    • Masthead
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    • Issue Thirteen
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    • Issue Fifteen
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