Christina Seymour - Poetry

Monday Nov 25

On Hiatus

Christina Seymour’s poem “Home is Dead when He Fights” travels with Kent State's international exhibit Speak Peace —American Voices Respond to Vietnamese Children’s Paintings. She is currently an MFA student at WVU where she imagines and teaches.

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Choosing the Body

The lightning was pink last night.

Twigs blew off the trees and landed in our hair.

As a child, I fought a similar rain,

hugged and punched yellow petals

swirling in a small wind I thought I had a chance with.

It wasn’t that way last night—

runoff did not ruin my shoes

and make me feel dense and part

of the sky.

Instead, the storm watched me.

It saw me lean on the black wire chair,

peered through the fog before its eyes

and checked my outline for smudges,

but only some me remained,

a me who stayed against her urge to become.

Chasing Ideal

Two black wolves on sifted snow

wander to the edge of a geyser.

I think that their eyes, moons of fig and sun

could make me beautiful

or unfreeze my hope from its still socket,

make me feel a limber ladle of awe and innards

and blue, allow me to walk

on river grass, tongue swimming

warm in the county of my mouth,

one string stitching my blood to my heart.

My taste for sheep would be surrender:

cradling a soft throat in my jaws,

tiny breaths fading over a dewy, pink tongue,

lashes folding like clouds.

For this, people would not want to sever

my one string stitching my blood to my heart.

I could say without saying, I am someone, too,

in this faultless world.