By Marianne Brems



As I climb up a third flight of stairs,

a piano falls from the sky.

Invisible, silent.

It lands slowly, deliberately

burrowing into my quads.

No path to climb out.

Somewhere along the way

a neuron shifts.

A familiar handle sits just out of reach.

A window seems harder to open.

A distance stretches longer than expected.

A lock inadvertently catches.

Larger than before,

these skeletons wiggle

their nascent urgency

into the pathways

before me.


Marianne Brems is a long time writer of textbooks, but also loves to write whimsical poems. She has an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her poems have appeared in Mused, Soft Cartel, The Pangolin Review, Right Hand Pointing, Armarolla, and Foliate Oak. She lives in Northern California.

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