Two Poems

mister first

“In the molested rocks the shell of virgins,
The frank closed pearl, the sea-girls’ lineaments”
—Dylan Thomas “I make this in a warring absence”

fresh snowed ground skin smooth
first footfall doesn’t blemish it
it will snow again

bedsheets taught across
the plume of blood won’t stain
as they can be cleaned

racing to wave’s froth
sand sprays with the children’s steps
yet all reach the same sea

a similar race
to adulthood with whiskey
slickened teenage lips

do we remember
that first kiss awkward and dry
or only their name

we were told that kiss
was to be magic on earth
a disappointment

do we remember
our second or had kissing
become mundane then

land and cities named
for those who discovered them
at least in their eyes

bodies too are named
this way of discovery:
Gräfenberg and Skene’s

when the old lie sold
when named the Latin for “scabbard”
empty without sword

when we are first filled
is that when we think we split
open to emerge

chitinous that is
this fiction of shell that we’re
supposed to step from

are multiple shells
allowed to those prized open
by pearl diver’s knife

does our skin harden
a coalesced carapace
from being alone

there isn’t a shell
it’s a parable told so we
feel we’ve lost something

A party to

There’s a less celebrated time, soon after golden week, just after
the cherry blossoms release their raw blooms, when the petals
crinkle and drop, or perhaps are pushed by the leaves behind
them, creating a May snow. I’m walking behind a trio teasing one
of their member, laughing up to the traffic lights, to the island
between Broadway and Main, with the aforementioned trees,
and as we cross onto this brick-pathed haven from the traffic,
the ribbed one reaches up to brush his knuckles against the arcing
blossom branch, knocking loose petals to fall around me like confetti
as if I had done something to deserve this small celebration, and he
said, lemme tell ya, lemme tell ya, but a japer squeals a laugh like a balloon
being let out, its mouth squeezed, lemme tell ya, lemme tell ya repeats,
and my knee-response is to be on his side, because I know how being
so chop-busted can leave me eye-sore, chest-hurt, so far from,
but her laughter reminds me when I’ve knee-slapped and told jokes
over other voices, throwing more pennies than their dimes, only to
hide, yet to be that third member, unspeaking, looking at the petal
mash, ground in the lines between the bricks as we all step off
the island toward the chirruping cross sign, they turn, and
the diminishing noise of their procession left me
hearing my own breath

__________

Seán Griffin (Her/Him) received an MFA in Creative Writing from Manhattanville College. Seán’s writing has appeared in The Southampton Review, Selcouth Station Press, Impossible Archetype, Dust Poetry Magazine, Non.Plus Lit, Sonic Boom, TERSE. Journal, Electric Town Lit, and elsewhere, with poetry in Marías at Sampaguitas, Cypress, The Mud Season Review, Ghost City Review, and Mineral Lit Magazine forthcoming. Seán teaches writing at Concordia College of New York, is an editor for Inkwell Literary Journal, and lives in New York with three dogs.