Poetry: “And the tulips didn’t bloom this year” by Caleb Wolfson-Seeley
Making the mundane suddenly surreal, Caleb Wolfson-Seeley links seemingly disparate moments, from a cat’s skeleton to burnt toast, in “And the tulips didn’t bloom this year.” Each stanza makes those links linguistically literal through the beginning “and” — a conjunction that gives the poem a sense of finding the speaker mid-sentence, in the midst of life (and death). We’re left with “raw seeds” and “pulp” caught in the speaker’s throat, but amazement still sits at the center of each passing moment.
Enjoy their poem below.
And the tulips didn’t bloom this year
And the cat died yesterday, and you left for Crete.
I dug a hole next to the first cat’s skeleton.
There always seems to be room for more,
bones packed next to bones,
shifting to let the others in,
passengers on a crowded train that never empties.
And our son learned to dive to the bottom of the pool.
He scraped his knee on the concrete side.
I’m still amazed he’s filled with blood,
the same drops that spilled
when we cut him on the eighth day,
cries muffled by sweet wine.
And I burned the toast for dinner.
We piled our scrambled eggs on top anyway.
He scooped them warm from under chickens,
straw still clinging to shells like babies to my legs,
yolks more orange than the pumpkin he carves every October,
until he doesn’t, and I’m left eating the seeds raw from their pulp.
Caleb Wolfson-Seeley
Caleb Wolfson-Seeley is a parent, baker, and writer residing in Williamstown, MA on the unceded land of the Mohican Nation. Caleb's writing has appeared in Eunoia Review, Ghost City Review, MUTHA Magazine, The Blood Pudding, and 3Elements Review.
