Seth Leeper
Pantoublock with Dead Flowers and an Apology
Thank you for the tulips. They lay green and smooth in my grocery bag
on the way home. The promise of their bloom: an anticipation the year
would turn for the better. I’m sorry for the tulips. They never had
a chance. I couldn’t be trusted to nurture their short lives when I was
surrounded by death. The promise of their white petals peeking out
from their green skin. I ran the tap to coat their bed at the bottom
of the blue vase. I couldn’t be trusted to tend to their ephemeral needs.
Their shy heads bowed. I’m sorry to the tulips: I should have placed
you in the kitchen where I could marvel at your tenacity to blossom.
I ran the tap to soak the inside of the vase with enough water to sustain
life. The tap wouldn’t yield more than miserly amounts. I’m sorry to
the tulips: I should have placed you near the window where the sun
beams brightest. There’s been ceaseless rain assaulting the panes of my
apartment, though the other tenants seem unaffected: They emerge
from their lairs, clothes dry. The tap wouldn’t yield more than dabs
and dollops. I should have placed them near an open window, but
I was afraid they’d drown in the onslaught of the ceaseless rain that,
for days, has doused the glass between my small rooms and the world.
They droop, silent, on my table. Petals paper thin, stems faded and pale.
Pantoublock with Red Convertible and Rainbow Arches
He apparated in the passenger seat of my red convertible
cruising over the Golden Gate Bridge, cold fog and pixel
-ated mist touched our dreaming faces. He asked me
why every time he dropped in for a visit I was always
returning from somewhere else. He asked me how my
mother was, and after I shot him a cold side eye,
answered him honestly. Cold fog and pixelated mist
pulsed like mirages around our dreaming heads. As we
passed under rainbow arches, he held his breath.
He asked me how my mother passed, and after I asked
why he cared, told him the truth. “I haven’t seen her
around these parts, so she must have gone somewhere
else,” he said. I hadn’t asked him about his latest
misadventures in the afterlife. I replied she was probably
swimming alongside dolphins with her pack of dogs.
“I haven’t seen her around, and I’ve made my way
around these parts a few times,” he said. I didn’t tell
him she’d probably seen him coming. I replied she was
probably walking her pack of dogs through the red
-woods. “She was a real looker in her day, you know,”
he said and lit a cigar. I didn’t tell him she’d finally
come to me the night before, but only in short flashes
that dissipated as quickly as they appeared. Tobacco
fumes burned my nose hairs. The car hugged each cliff
edge back to the city. The wind chilled our naked heads.
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Seth Leeper is a queer poet. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Sycamore Review, River Styx, The Journal, Salamander, and The Account. He holds an master’s degree in special education from Pace University and bachelor’s degree in creative writing and fashion journalism from San Francisco State University. He teaches drop-in and virtual workshops for Brooklyn Poets. He can be found on socials @sethwleeper.