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Two Poems by Sam Herschel Wein | Word Riot

October 22, 2016      

Two Poems by Sam Herschel Wein

Allergy Season

I want three hundred grooms. I’m sick of flowers. I’m trying to figure out
why we always have to have two of something. Double–knotted shoes.
Alternating scissor kicks. Dos Equis. I don’t always cheat on someone,
but when I do, it’s because I fear being in love. Of double tuxedos. Of
absent breakfasts, of intimate small talk. I’ve never loved two as a word,
really. Its varied spellings. Its too easily fit on the loveseat. I do better in
crowded spaces, in ten friends on the roof wet from the rain, in six
of us in a four person car, looking for pastries. In eleven to a queen size
bed. I sneeze in pairs, though, one right after another. Two equal
volumes of shock, of full body convulsion. I’m a wet sneezer, I spray
my entire dashboard, leave wet indents in the elbows of shirts. That’s
what I think about love, perhaps. Globules of slime, slowly sliding from
the turning signal. Marks left like decomposed rain. Someone shaking
all that is you, completely, again for measure, then not returning
until allergy season, seasonal, inefficient moods. But I do love
to sneeze. Head to wall collisions. Stuttering, pre–thought words.
Everyone turns up to look. Relinquished control, with not a
question asked. I would like, always, to be that free, in a pair.
I would like, on occasion, to sneeze on your dresser, on your leftover
sock on the wood, under the nook beneath your lampshade. I dream
of my friends in a massage circle, sneezing to our left, a pool
brewing to hold us all there at once.

Dying of Heat

60 in January, we’re fucked & we know
it but we out here. Two year old, conductor’s
cap & riding a toy car up the hill, his
mom sometimes having to push through
the steep parts, six friends at a hot
dog stand, Anya in a leopard jacket, a
beekeeper full white on a motorcycle,
wearing a neon yellow helmet. It’s nice
so we out here, the pavement rocks
glistening, every jeep windows down &
fluffy monsters in the back seat, we
60 in January clothes, Kelsey striped legs
& athletic jacket, we unlayered, out
here & dying in greenery unashamed &
out of style, out of season, we joke,
out here, hot dog dribbles in our beards
bearded ladies & men & shapeshifted
coats, shedding skin persons, 60 living
to 30 til we’re flooded breath, til the
coasts sink our layers on apartment
floors, we don’t need them, we out here,
scared but trying the sun, daring it leave
us aflame, shit, already we out of ideas,
companies burn coal with homemade
suns & we sit in city hall, out here, 60
years sitting and not an ounce of power
gained, but we glory glory the warmth
in our knuckles, singing.

bio-picAbout the author:

Sam Herschel Wein is a Chicago resident who has begun to build his own furniture. He is a poetry reader for The Blueshift Journal, is the editorial assistant for Construction Magazine, and is co-founder of a new journal, Underblong, with his friend, Chen Chen. Recent work has appeared in Salt Hill, Nightblock Magazine, and Cahoodaloodaling, among others. See what he’s up to at

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