Distance sonnet #3.5

I once believed distance meant a lack of sound,
but lately silence screams like a falling leaf.
The morning emails offer no relief,
just time zones measured in lost and found.
I texted you, “Are you still around?”
but autocorrect wrote “grief.”
Which honestly was more accurate. Brief,
but accurate. I stare at the coffee grounds.

Then the turn: I remember that time you said
the universe was mostly space,
and that we should learn to be grateful for the gaps.
I laughed too loud and spilled wine on the bed.
Now I study every wrinkle on my face
like it's a map of our collapse.

Distance sonnet #7.5

the train’s whistle interrupts
the part of the dream
where I tell you I’m sorry
and mean it.

it’s not always about closure.
sometimes it’s about the way
the body pulls away
from the metaphor too late

and we are left with syntax
and a list of groceries
you no longer buy.

Do you still eat apples?
have you learned how to hold
someone without shaking?

Sean Cho A. is the author of “American Home" (Autumn House 2021) winner of the Autumn House Press chapbook contest. His work can be found in The New England Review, Black Warrior Review, Copper Nickel, The Massachusetts Review, among others. Sean is a graduate of the MFA program at The University of California Irvine and The PhD program at the University of Cincinnati. He is the Editor in Chief of The Account. Currently he is an assistant professor in the southern united states.

Photo credit: Tom Swinnen