Poetry: 3 Poems by Brianna Suazo

Poetry: 3 Poems by Brianna Suazo

The House Out of Reach 

A feeling born of a dream
Or a dream born of a feeling.
I know the dust of a place
Without form.

The blue stained-glass
Looms over my movements
As I try to make them mean something,
Cultivate a misfire of neurons
Like taffy again and again
Until it stretches into significance.

What came first
No longer matters.
Only that the house weaved itself
Into words and worlds
Built on top of it.


The 6 AM Shift

In winter moonlight marks the walk
Cold that wakes the blood

In June the suburban street feels incomplete
As dawn resets a forgotten morning
All hazy sun and sleepy eyes

A supermarket before it opens
Half-finished purgatory
Of movement stilted
And coffee unfinished

Muzak usually subliminal now demands
The foreground
The stamp ads speak directly
To you
Yes you

The first patrons filter in
Six an hour
Their feet reverberate
Across the half-cleaned linoleum
They ask questions
Like they mean it


35 mm

Born after the internet, I am not solid, I will not endure,
The crisscrossed telephone wires remind me as I walk along old-town side-streets. An old film camera in my second-hands thuds against my stomach, its leather case protecting it from wear.

I have fallen into the hole they warned against,
In spite of the electricity that once buzzed inside of me. 
I watched a film reel once of this very street, of a boy in uniform, speaking,

To his mother behind the camera. How I wish to be immortalized in grainy black-and-white.
Maybe I couldn’t handle being real. If I could merely be a frame and a tin-box voice
That might be enough. Maybe I wouldn’t wring my hands so much at the reality

Of being a speck in endless data points. My father remarked once in a restaurant,
“No one wants to pay for writing.” He did not say it cruelly. It was a warning from one who knows
What it’s like to lose half their value to endless information. Maybe

Saying something felt less like screaming into a stadium against a wall of pure noise, once.
Clutching the last remains of light and sound, a dimension of sight and sound is all that’s left.
“Point and turn the aperture and stand very still and click and turn the film with your thumb

Again and again until you forget and let the weight weigh down your neck and don’t dare
Get the camera wet.” The leather case bumps against my not-real flesh,
Leaving hope that my fingers will stink of chemicals when I create something intended to exist.  

Fiction: Override by David Rae

Fiction: Override by David Rae

Poetry: 1 Poem by Christina Murphy

Poetry: 1 Poem by Christina Murphy