His skin, like caramel colored crepe streamers,
hangs on to yesteryear.
Gray orbits the brown of his eyes.
He smells a mixture of memories and Metamucil;
Lets me dig in his pockets for change
even though I am well past the age of penance
and no longer toss the pennies of my youth into fountains
in pursuit of a perfect tomorrow.
He speaks of the past in scattered scriptures.
I make moments to listen.
I am his favorite.
He still lets me sit on his lap
and calls me his purple heart.
He gives without reason;
Makes Mama jealous
that we keep time’s secrets.
He loves me,
and like knots,
we are tied intricately and with permanence.
I Dream, She Dreams
cooling on window sills
sea salted winds
making Casper of curtains
rain washing away chalk remains of love
burning flesh and gun powder
we are a product of the same environment
but I am the sum of lovers
Sean Johnson graduated from the University of Houston in
2002. Since then she has slammed and performed spoken word
throughout the country and starred in several local plays. Her
poetry has appeared in Pure Francis, Riversongs, American
Society: What Poets See, Littlest Blessings, Houston Poetry
Fest’s 2012 Anthology, and she has works appearing in Third
Wednesday, In His Steps, and Drown in My Fears later this year.
She resides in Houston, Texas with her dog Blue Belle.