Instagram – by Heidi Seaborn

To find an ex-lover is easy. He smiles with his wife,
kids, on some beach. He’s heavier around the face,
everywhere. When you look at her, you see you. The
kids have your nose, strawberry blonde hair, his eyes—
bracken green like the pond near the house you shared
together. House big enough for a family you thought as
you wandered the empty rooms with the real estate lady.
In the fall, you chase spiders out and dust. Close the
spare-room doors one by one.

Heidi Seaborn starting writing poetry in 2016. Since then her work has appeared in over 50 journals and anthologies (including Nimrod, Penn Review, American Journal of Poetry), as the political pamphlet Body Politic (Mount Analogue Press) and in her forthcoming chapbook Finding My Way Home (Finishing Line Press). She is a 2017 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and Knightville Prize semi-finalist, a 2017 Patricia Dobler Poetry Award and the Lauren K. Alleyne Difficult Fruit Poetry Prize finalist and a Pushcart Prize and Best of Net nominee. A graduate of Stanford University, she is on the editorial staff of The Adroit Journal and lives in Seattle.

Photographer’s Note: This poem represents a ping-pong of thoughts between present and past, a struggle between what is and what was. I chose this photo because it represents a quiet place to sit alone with your thoughts (serene), reflect on your past (literal reflections), dream big dreams, and try to work your way out of a state of confusion (fog). The slightest bit of sunshine always signifies new hope, even when an Instagram search creates that twinge of discontent.