Claire Seymour – three poems

Text Messages at the End of the World
(Re: Idk)

I think it’s cool the way u save
sugary cereal milk in the bowl
for last in the honey-haze
of morning but idk if thats weird?
& Ik we’re not, like, together,
but I’m wearing the blue dress
that u call summer shade,
the slice of color on my legs
kinda like the chorus of
Strawberry Fields Forever
by the Beatles. Whatever,
it’s just stupid hahaha.
It’s November remember last yr
ur tires slipped thru the ice in my
driveway + ur breath was clouds
of powdered sugar & my veins
long blue roads leading west idk idk
the air was a streaming blotch of film
glowing signs like goldfish lol remember?
I mean ik we’re not, like, a thing,
but I still remember ur verandah in Georgia
& the honeysuckle u put in my hair
lol but it doesn’t matter? Forget it.
This doesn’t, like, mean anything.
Right? Okay?
K.


Boys and Girls

I was fourteen,
tequila shots, a blurry boy
shoving me against a wall,
I don’t want to write about that.

I could write about the
golden girls I kissed in Louisiana,
blue stained glass eyes,
slow waltz voices spilling into my mouth.
They wore crosses on their chests,
shimmering dove feather white.

I think I want to write about
the boys I’ve loved, who
didn’t want the hero to die,
the ones with starry voices,
breaking wishbones like a
quiet, soft yellow tragedy.
I’ve loved girls with pale
revolutionary limbs, who

wake from dreams they cannot
remember. Girls with Florida legs
and stretched out skin,
who said “you are so tiny”
over and over until I was aching.

I’m definitely not going to think
about last April, gaping
black galaxy mouth,
a smooth white kitchen,
something like a dream,
anything but a dream.

It’s hard for me to write about
My father, who drinks scotch
with stunning passion,
full moon eyes growing brighter
until light and heat blind him.
This is for the boys that
will become like him,
the ones without mothers,
who cry when the cows
are slaughtered, empty lungs
for days, who allow their futures
to kick them black and blue.
I look at my father, think,
I will never love anything like you.

One day, I will love girls
who chase after taxi cabs,
girls who play with my hair,
boys with butterfly lips,
who remember New York as
insomnia and smoke rings,
who let wonder devour them.

One day, I will love too hard and too fast,
another day, with the
quivering heart of a mouse.
Somewhere, boys and girls
are leaping forward,
someday, I will open my eyes
and scream, “Catch me!”


Lullaby for Insomnia

This happens in some sort of second life,
I swear.
Outside,
In the haze of winter
the sky loosens
& pale confetti drifts down
onto cobblestone streets.

Inside,
the lightbulb above your bed
flickers.
For a moment, there is just darkness–
I don’t know where your body
begins or ends.

My gold dress falls around my ankles
& sleep is a wonderland far, far, away.

Eyes like silver dollars,
your bedroom like a fishbowl,
the rest of the world
is just a distant memory.


Claire Seymour lives in Brooklyn, New York. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the Norman Mailer Awards. Her work has been published in Hypernova Lit, Hypertext Magazine, the Chautauqua Literary Journal, Thistle Magazine, and the Baltimore Review.

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