Samantha Seto

Samantha Seto

 
February 02 2013

Note to Beloved

Samantha Seto

My note travels across the room, past mobs of people,
it reaches his hands, before he slips it into trash,
My face flushes purple, anger rages, heart pounds.

In our timed and untimed arrivals,
pulleys to the elevator ascend.
Casually late, mail travels over double doors,
long-distance calls at airport.

Room dealt black and red deck of cards,
cheap perfume, left messages in parlors, postcard view.
Secrets packages turn to ash and canopies of dust,
meant for those far away.

Luggage tags, passports, travel haze.
Airplanes depart, passengers run to board plane,
shuttle to hidden magic at entrance.

Lines of travelers, past crowds of colorless blur,
angled mirrors, static of an old radio.
Crossword puzzles, smell of airborne sickness,
left waiting for him at gate 64.

He stares at me, tears flood my eyes,
Overwhelmed at the moment, peppermint scent.
Voice clings in bitterness to my throat,
search for the words to release.

 

The Last of Us

So many decades have passed.
We grew apart between love into hate and sad letters.

Phone calls impossible for my paper flowers,
your face vanishes into crowds, escape inside our song.

I breathe into your lungs like the soprano in the opera,
my ghost will inhabit your soul.

The ground weighs beneath my feet in white hospital linen,
my headache burns past nightfall.

If our collective CPR stopped, lost charge,
our last breath would synchronize into one.

Despite every passing second alive
for all who breathed us in, a pair of doves.

Each set of lungs, colorful balloons, warm kisses,
they throw us into air and I watch you rise like rain.

 

Downward

Dust fairies dance to paint the wall
in darkness of shadows.
Candlestick illuminates,
impartial to the burning scent.

Blending moths rustle in and out
of gray curtains as I plaster
pages of written letters,
smearing ink on the walls.

One glass tile broken in the window,
from the outside looking in, paper catches fire,
circling the floor, in time warp.

Emptied water spills in the center,
like birds on fire, whirlpool down.
Ghosts of those who remembered,
refuse gravity to pull me down.

Tarnished mirror reveals blackened flesh,
blurs of rouge on my face.

Enigmatic nature of visions
my life flashes in front of me,
ghosts hold death in their arms –
immediate in forceful impact.