some parts of the fastest runner&other poems

mikeswanberg


You hide your art because you don’t want
To answer difficult questions oh love that is like me
Hiding my heart because you can not stand the sight
Of blood there is nothing to this the veils we
Place over their eyes wont cover anything

We are protecting our own open mouths
from flies we are watching a storm
on the water twist itself into being
do you doubt for a moment that
we wont make it home dry?
--------------------------------------------

The fastest runner has drawn everything into being
Her god her boy her work
Since she was just a little girl
The runner watches because she cannot touch
The runner laces shoes too tight because she mustn’t

The runner has heard it all before
An albatross dipping her wings in the water
So in a year her love might taste the salt
-------------------------------------------

paris in ruins

Oh when she gets to paris
Oh when the sun shines through
A chain link fence and makes territories
Of her empty hand then she will know
She should have never come

Cold for September in a low top
Smiling against the grain of this experience
Her hands now reaching into her purse
For something she is sure she forgot

There is no one to take a picture of this moment
She tells herself out loud
With All her territories in ruin
as she rubs her hands together for warmth
-----------------------------

I would wear a string of them
Those awful moments when you
Were just a girl all at once like a house
Falling into the ocean

I would climb the groaning stairs
0f memory and give some ghost
what’s left of my affects for you to not
turn for you to not be ruled by that year

But what could change you have painted
The eyes of some love I never knew
And for this I owe you everything
The fastest runner
The broken queen with a tongue that sings
Hallelujah

place whatever book you picked up today
Back on the shelf I know it is cold but stand
Naked in the peach streetlight near your door

be the one who runs the fastest from her worries
and her old life and her shadow
take each step as carefully as brushstrokes
until your feet are song on street

every second step a jump towards the cloudless sky
those destined for flight will find it everywhere
but sleep

---------------------------------------------------

these boys come to pray at the alter
of her skin the intricacy of bone beneath.
a long curve of neck disappearing

what next they ask themselves
covering their hearts for fear she will
break in

I covered my own chest too when her words
Shook me deeply I wasn’t ready
To hit the floor but I did

And with as little grace as a lit cigarette
I Sputtered and danced right there
In front of everyone

What next I asked myself
My heart in my chest like a heart
What next

I'm trying to see past all this

by Bru


I Am Going to Breathe You Out of My Head

I need new memories
to cover up the old ones.
So I grab my ankles
when I'm sitting down and nervous,
wondering if anybody's staring
at my pointy bones.

I need new memories
to cover up the old ones.
Just for a little while.
Just enough whiles so it doesn' t
hurt so much anymore.

I don't need so many.
I can put some in a box
with ribbon on top
and send them to you.

Would that be all right?
Will you tell me that it would be all right?
If you told me it would be all right,
then I could use the rest of my blue ribbon.
The ribbon I put in my hair so you would
notice it matched my eyes.


I guess that one's going in the box too.

------------

The Writer

Papa read every one of your articles in the newspaper.
He'd flap the pages so they stayed stiff when he read.
He always finished with a smile.
He kept the words in a dark wooden box
on the top shelf in the closet.

When he died last Thursday,
he took all those stories with him.
He'll tell new friends about how you
witnessed doctors performing brain surgery,
and young girls finding their birth mothers.
And how that one firefighter made meatballs
that tasted exactly like your widowed mother's.

Every Christmas he would say
how well you had done this year.
And every Christmas you would
tell him, "Thanks Dad."
You loved him more than your words.
You loved him more than any words.
More than any words.

December 21

By Amy Lipman

I.

A child talks to God
Through the pipes of a furnace
She says
I will melt the icebergs
If you give me a new body

I will stop Hell's freezing
Turn your world into Earth
Wires snap
But Father's parched
Let him drink your milky thighs

II.

I prayed for solace
And you sent a jackhammer
Outside of my window
On Sabbath mornings
Cut down the tree outside my apartment
What does it matter
I still know the truth

Breathe in my trinity
Cough out the vines
Hugging tight both your hearts
Once your chest
Now a suitcase

You rain on my skin
Licks of strength, mostly charm
To call all the snakes home
We all crawl, scoot along
Slip forward on bellies

Some

by Chrissy Bruzek aka Bru.

1.

This is Like Sleeping

I remember how I can fall asleep
to the whirls of air around my head.
Cascading through cracks of paint in the walls
and hovering about ears.
It brings thoughts of
regret and reform.
Rejuvenation and restlessness.
Reprimands and relief.
Stacked like unread magazines
in a practitioner's office;
where people go when they think something is wrong
with their heads,
or bodies,
or heads.

Inhaling.
Exhaling dirtied air
after it writhes through thoughts.
It enters the mind pure and fragile.
Leaving, it is disposed, forgotten.
The whirls hang in the air,
unaware of their incipient descent.
And I?
I will not say a word.

2.

In my poetry class at COD we were prompted to write a poem based on our inspirations from this artist that was featured in one of COD's galleries. This particular artist stapled fabric to a wall. And lemme tell you. There were lots of staples. This poem is based on the artist's work.

Millions of Staples
in response to “Wallspace” by Elana Herzog

As many staples as there are
human eyes in the world or
strands of hair twisted around a curl.

As many staples as there are
light bulbs hanging in stagnant offices or
the number of times a child says, “I want this.”

As many staples as there are
doubts in a future bride’s mind or
worrying about how there just isn’t enough time.

As many staples as there are
closed blinds in the homes of people who are shy
or wrinkles around an old person's eyes.

Millions and millions and millions of staples.
Try and count them.
You'll never be able to.
Try and count them.
I dare you.

3.

Owls

I heard owls last night,
singing their hopes that the sun won’t rise,
wondering if that would bring them closer to their demise.

I pictured them in perches against the sky,
holding wine glasses towards the end of their lives.

Hearing owls last night.

It happens maybe once every two years;
with us thinking it’s because of miracles.
So we fall asleep with this mysterious noise in our ears.

We will wake up the next morning,
forgetting it ever happened,
until the next time, in two years or so,

when they decide to raise their wine glasses
towards the end of their lives.
All we’ll give them is thirty seconds
and the slipping of our minds.

December 5

By Amy Lipman

I

Nurse, my dreams
End on ladders in the dark

Bring bandages
Temples were burned

II.

I called for you to come home
Until my voice turned into the roof

III.

If I didn’t know you
I’d think you were lovely
I’d think you were what children want out of snow
A home and a man to make love to without
Giving up hope or
Removing their clothes