Sean Lynch is a poet and editor who lives in South Philadelphia. His poems have appeared in journals including Hobart, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Drunk Monkeys. He’s the founding editor of Serotonin, on the editorial board of Moonstone Arts Center, and serves as the Program Director of the Nick Virgilio Haiku Association and Writer’s House in Camden, NJ.
“A Not Very Brief Description of What It’s Like to Have Your Heart Broken in Couplets”
The night after I fell out of love Jon Hamm cuckolded me danced with her in a ghostly kitchen disrobed her black dress more gracefully than I ever could brushed his fingers against her shoulder freckles. The night after I fell out of love in real time while describing a cheeseburger to a customer I wrote her an email that was devoid of emotion clicked send to another hell and drifted into her arms while Jon Hamm still held her and I lost all my hair from my head while her rose stained teeth tore into me. Tore through my solar plexus until my synapses switched fired cannon thoughts through me filled my blood with her. My lungs feigned collapse I turned livid when she laughed even the lavender scented hand soap I lathered into my skin while dry heaving into the sink couldn’t soothe me couldn’t calcify into the armor I needed so I compartmentalized membranes into layers of internal solitude. I choked. Swallowed swallows the feathers furthering falling down my throat but slowly as I drank my farewell to her. “Who sends an email to their ex?” my sister asked. Me apparently.
“Reading the Aluminum Monster’s High School Diary”
I pull at the crossbow string sitting naked in front of my computer while thinking about the only island I’ve never been on - where she was born - a siren filled with freckles. How I know what I don’t want to feel. Her shoulders floating in the sea. What is it that waters the inside of my chest? A red shale rock from Long Island - in an upper-class town I’ve never known - why do I still keep a stone on my bookshelf? And has that virgin statue ever moved? I cannot solve the hole in my ceiling - so I spit my skin into my keyboard. I said I cannot solve the hole in my ceiling and the landlord’s down the shore. So I finger the string and watch tiles fall around me.
“After Wearing Your Bloody Sheets Like a Toga”
I used your pregnancy test for a thermometer when you left me. I rolled your dandruff into a joint and got high off your dirty hair. I sang your favorite songs alone until I coughed blood into my toilet. I ate so many sandwiches that my bank account went drier than my blood-caked mouth. I ordered everything off the internet only leaving my apartment to collect bags from my stoop. I gathered all the stains you left behind rubbed them into my skin. I stayed alive just out of spite.