creates a snare drum throbbing eighteenth
notes on my roof for a solid
ten minutes. A bag of spilt pellets dancing
on linoleum. On repeat. What gets me
though is that a co-worker complained
about the beats he heard against
his windows last night. How his eyes refused
to close at three forty five. He called it a droning.
But me–I have always thrummed
along the steering wheel, on the lip
of the dinner table, cracked sets of chopsticks
and drummed glasses topped with water,
witnessed the condensation bounce
off the surface, scatter before me
like clusters of stars marching
in random patterns. The notes now melt into
thick streams gathering in the gutters. I grasp
my pillow, nestle in place, find comfort as God cracks
the glass of heaven, births constellations
to a mighty rhythm across my roof
and window panes.
Header photograph © Peter Burton.
Stephen Briseño is a poet, photographer, and middle school English teacher. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Memoir Mixtapes, 8Poems, formercactus, Bone & Ink Press, and Right Hand Pointing. He lives in San Antonio with his wife and daughter, where you can usually find them lounging at a coffee shop.
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