Three Poems
Beatriz Seelaender
apricots & co.
the trees at the bay are dry and bent permanently to the right
winter here is autumnal, a fall from grace in slow motion
prickling fingers reach out to my brain, surgical gadgets
running interference, where are the leaves?
the trees have their hands and their plans but where have the leaves gone?
the grass is dry like an apricot, and why are apricots always dry?
presumably there are fresh apricots in existence,
but are they apricots when first picked up from the tree? or are they like raisins and grapes, after and before,
give me a second to look it up
no, the apricot keeps its name, like a dried-out leaf after leaving its mother
because the caliph who brought it over missed his motherland of Damascus
because of some persecution he was forced to leave the desert and its fruit
for Andalusia, where the trees hibernate and the lambs drink straight from the river,
and the grass is fuzzy like the hairy tummy of a stray puppy, and the rain is welcome
and yellowed-out vegetation brings to mind the house of a book collector
wild cypresses cover up Roman fortresses, not much water left under the bridge
but many leaves leavened by the landscape, or the opposite,
remember cause, effect, and the apricot, which keeps its name, even though I have never seen a fresh one,
only the living still life of the caliphate as they kept their enemies at bay, where the
bushes are dry and bent and permanently to the right, and winter has abandoned us,
and the interstice of many-branched claws reaches for my inspiration
though I never sing of nature, unmoved by flora, unmoved by variety,
but that was back home where the trees never look thirsty, on the contrary,
they are always flourishing, and I can’t relate to them.
if you love death so much, why don’t you marry it?
you are in love with death:
the way some girls plan their weddings
you’ve planned out your funeral,
obsessed with the empty ever after
you’ve picked out your coffin
the way some of them have picked out their dress
before even having found a suitable match,
the wedding ranking above the marriage as a priority,
it’s true, for death shall part them, too
one will leave the other
for everyone’s last lover
but not you, you’ve already married her
a black wedding dress to the rehearsal
of your burial: the triumph at last
death shall never do you part
from death. the way some girls
learn there’s no happily ever after
you’ve earned yours
but if you say you do, eternity lies empty before
you realize you wanted a wedding
and not a marriage,
you were in love with dying,
and death fell into your trap
Manic Pixie (Nightmare Girl)
her bio said “international woman of misery”
but you have probably misread that
she speaks all the languages inside the language she is speaking
she plays mario kart and would die for death cab for cutie
her precarious taste in films means you can still teach her
about the godfather and christopher nolan deep-cuts
yet the mysterious ticking you hear is her thinking
it’s a competition, and she’s winning
she’s there because you said you’d buy her dinner: she’ll listen
she’s paying the price for her pasta, but now
she would rather dash and get caught and do the dishes
the things coming out of your mouth are just insults
to her intelligence and overall interest
her faith in humanity dwindling, you’re telling her
you’ve looked up sapiosexual on the internet, and decided that’s you
so easy to be when it seems anybody will match the description
you laugh, because you did not get it, will set it aside for later
but something you said set her off and now she is speaking
anxiously about facts that you don’t understand
she makes you feel bad about not knowing your country’s own history
she thinks she’s hot shit but she’s only a shit dinner guest
at some point she opens a tablet of zoloft and downs
four counts with coca-cola and a lemon slice
you know, I could probably get away with murder, she says
I have seen so many procedurals and detective shows
you nod in terror – not how you thought this night would go
I could discard a body like this, she throws a napkin on her plate
it’s late, you say, let’s get going
you think, as she waives, Phew!
you’ll never call her again
though you will have an occasional nightmare
that you’re married and she’s chasing you
trying to murder you with the ukelele
you thought you saw on her profile picture
(it was actually a sitar)
Beatriz Seelaender was born in the middle of the fall, in the Southern hemisphere's most populous and loveliest city, São Paulo. She lives in Rome, where seasons do not make sense.