Praise for
A Collection of Somethings and Others
"There isn't a young poet as interested in the everyday as Seberger is. This collection delights in more ways than one."
–Tyler Michael Jacobs, 5th year SHP Creative Writing Instructor
The poem “Aster” is dedicated to Amelia and her lei. All other poems are for me. Loser.
Contents
Aster
Just writing
Love
Undefined
Sunburnt Snakes
The Life of a Housewife
I Feel
Wet Floor Sign
Writers’ Block
Coincidence
Road Kill
Muffled
Windowsill
Next in Line
Decomposition
Thank you to my father, who fueled my love for writing.
Thank you to the semicolon, for being the best punctuation.
Aster
Just a lion with flowers for his mane.
Too dainty for his pride, too fierce for his garden.
His sandy fur, perfect for stealth. If it weren’t for his purple mane.
His soft petals, perfect for a loving caress. If it weren’t for his sharp teeth.
He doesn’t want to be a lion. He doesn’t want to be a bouquet.
Just a lion with flowers for his mane.
Just Writing
A pencil's tip slides across the paper,
Grooves of lead making shallow ravines.
A world of words, its landscape carved into the paper.
A letter, then five,
then a paragraph of the former.
This world only comes to an end when the pencil grows dull.
Love
As I kneel before the altar, asking for forgiveness for my sins,
I can only pray that God doesn’t count you as one of them.
Undefined
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Sunburnt Snakes
The peeling of my skin,
the shedding of sun-kissed layers.
It burns; it itches.
Hell’s itch,
the Devil’s reptile.
We are one in the same-
Both to be reborn,
in the torn layers from which we came.
The Life of a Housewife
Her hands are soft, warm with life.
They do the housework; the laundry, the cooking, the dishes.
His crops, her husband’s, sway outside her window as far as she could see.
How long had it been since she had been to town?
“Does he make you happy?” I ask, hand delicately placed on her shoulder. “Your husband?”
She bites her tongue, “He takes care of me.”
He takes care of me.
I Feel
I feel my teeth chattering, a bead of sweat on my brow.
The swells in my stomach, the tightening of my throat.
I feel.
I feel my hands shake, knuckles pale with fear.
I kneel in front of the toilet, gripping the seat.
I feel.
I feel how it slides up my throat, molten waves spreading throughout my esophagus.
Bulky boats fight the waves, forced along by the current to hit the walls of my throat.
I feel.
I feel it surge past my tongue, burning. It slams into the toilet, meshing into the water.
The boats crash, crew left to drown; then, as the sweat rolls down my temple, I sigh.
I no longer feel.
Wet Floor Sign
My shoe slips, sending my head hurling into the floor. I connect with the linoleum, my skull audibly cracking. Strawberry jam mats my hair, the frosted-glass shards of the jar littering the floor. I stand, albeit still a bit wobbly, and reach for the freezer door. Scanning the shelf, I pull out the two-percent milk. I would prefer whole milk, but it’s been out of stock for nearly three months and two days. A younger lady scans my milk, ringing me up to five dollars. I hand her a ten, only to fumble with the change as I try to shove it back in my wallet. Holding up the line only serves to make me feel worse; even normally, when I don’t have a head injury, it makes me nervous. I quickly shove my wallet back in my pocket, heading out the door. I drive home, the radio humming a simple yet soft tune. I can’t quite hear it over the blood clogging my ears, so I turn it up a few notches. I’m happy I did; I love this song.
Writers’ Block
Do it already. It shouldn’t be hard.
You chose this- asked to be here, right?
So do it.
Don’t fight it, you asked for this.
You wanted this- you still do, right?
So do it.
Don’t be a liar. Nobody likes liars.
You need people to like you, right?
So do it.
Without it, you are nothing, Nobody.
It is all you are good at- after all- right?
So do it.
Coincidence
I walked for about seven miles before I collapsed, and I felt pretty good about it.
Seven is my lucky number.
I saw a dusty old road sign that said I was trespassing. I didn’t really care, though.
Seven is my lucky number.
Roadkill
I saw a garter snake in the middle of the road today. His tail had been flattened; maybe a man late for work or a woman on her way to pick up her kids. The snake squirmed and flipped, slapping around the burning asphalt. I couldn't help but feel bad for it. I hadn’t been the one to run it over, I hadn’t even been in a car. But seeing something so helpless and in such writhing pain? I went home and cried that day.
Muffled
I try to speak, try to cry out for help,
But bugs flood my mouth.
Worms, beetles, dragonflies, ants.
They swarm, fighting for room among my teeth.
Windowsill
Yesterday, A dead fly sat on the windowsill.
Another fly, seeing the former, flew high.
He hit the glass, fighting the solid air.
He flew higher, searching still.
Today, there are two dead flies on the windowsill.
Next in Line
A pharmacy for those of us who dream.
You’re prescribed something;
a nightmare, or maybe something with a hidden meaning.
The lady behind the desk is faceless.
She isn’t real.
Her hands, quick and sharp, slide the dreams across the counter.
You take it, and you dream.
A giant spider, a boat on an empty lake, a better life than that which you currently have.
It's always a gamble; you never know what you might get.
I, for one, don’t go to the pharmacy. I don’t dream.
The dreams they give me are fake; something to do with the placebo effect, maybe.
I don’t dream. It’s a scam, I’d say.
Decomposition
Her body lays, limp, against the old tree trunk.
Time drifts through her,
tangling in her hair and gnawing at her clothes.
Her face is dull, yet soft and delicate.
She hadn’t been wearing makeup that day;
she had always been told she had this special, natural beauty.
Now, as moths flutter in her heart,
and worms slide through her veins,
she would wonder if it was true.
Is she really beautiful like they said?
Beautiful enough to make her own mother cry?
She would. Her mother had always been the emotional type, after all.
But would she remember her?
Would she remember her dearest daughter,
whom she’d always pray would be good.
No drugs, no drinking.
Good grades, good person.
She was always lending her heart to others, just like her mother wanted.
This time, however,
as he smiled at her and asked her to join him,
it seems her kind nature,
that of which she was praised for,
would lead to her downfall.
She didn’t think, at the time, that he would hurt her.
But he wasn’t as simple as a smile and wave, no.
He was real. He was human.
And if there’s one thing she knew,
it’s that humans are animals.
And he, to put it simply,
he proved that a human is no better than the animals they fear.