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2 poems by Erin Lynn


What a strange thing to do, to drive, on a whim

to the house where you were born and where,

I imagine, your mother still lives, to pull aside

and stop my car and listen to the rushing creek

that we used to fall asleep to on my visits.

It’s been years since we’ve spoken and I think

we’re both alright with that but as I paused

there I felt something clutch at my gut, as if

my period was coming on command at

the sight of that wooden house, painted two

shades of mellow blue. I used to think that

you could do this, make my body move its

natural rhythms around to suit your schedule.

I remember lying on your twin bed, you breathing

in my ear, you know, you could move your hips,

too. But all the things I’ve seen from on my back,

the plastic stars you stuck to the ceiling. Those

were passive times for me, taking it all in. I didn’t,

as you feared I did, see your world with my suburban

eyes, trained on green clean yards and home repair.

It’s true, I didn’t have to think much of money

or its lack back then, and you found me wanting for that.

But I loved your run-down ghost town, my gothic

mind peopling every crumbling Victorian for fun

and I suppose that was the problem, no? I always

got to leave when the weekend was up.

Summer Fever

Late August and the season is slipping by.

From our deck, my love laments the sun

setting earlier. But I’m grateful for the growing

dark, the wind whipping oaks more forcefully.

In April, I confess, I was greedy for longer light.

I’ve never been at ease with the directive to live

in the moment. Not all moments are worth dwelling

in, and what would I be, bereft of longing?

Me, I hope for gold to creep among the green,

for a cold breeze and a busyness summer never

lets me achieve. I’m ready, now, to peel my weight

from those I’ve leaned too heavy on all season,

to shed this slowness, my thickening skin

and feel alive, at last, among the dying things.


Erin Lynn is a PhD candidate at the University of Connecticut where she also teaches English. She holds and MA in Irish Writing from Queen’s University Belfast and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. She co-curates Poor Mouth Poetry in the Bronx, and lives in Queens, NY.


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