Two Poems / by Charlie Lynn


The closest thing to dying is 
slicing a plant’s 
stem. You say X-Acto knife
We hold one half of bud at crook
of elbows and mash it.

Our arms grow tired. They hang deflated
We floss our teeth with
root hairs. Curl stems around our necks
and tie double knots.

You want to die
like a mouth when it has nothing to chew.
The bees rest in your hair tightly
winding your recall. Pick them out!
I can’t I’ve lost primacy.

Photosynthesis works twice every year.
One. It is when you put your throat
on my chest. Two. It is when you look
both left and right before crossing
the road.

I will die near you but not in love.





A girl jumps into a pool with
cinderblocks around her ankles and wakes
up believing in God. Out of her body
grows an entire phantom body. She is
Siamese. At night she tries to
touch its genitals but it quickly curves 
away. She wakes up to its mouth
grinding. It is something to do with 
stress. She starts a strict regimen 
of yoga with her phantom 
body. It is composed mostly
of child’s pose. For hours the two
look like ladybugs. She is scared that her
phantom body will die when she
is not looking it in both eyes.
She draws a big eye on a piece of
paper and glues it on her
phantom twin's face. Phantom opens
her mouth wide. A moth’s wing
is on her tongue





Charlie Lynn is an editor and founder of Gap Tooth. Her works have been published in Pathos and The Finger.