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.