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 or are forthcoming in several literary journals including The Pangolin Review, Armarolla, Foliate Oak, La Scrittrice, The Sunlight Press, and The Tiny Seed Literary Journal. She lives in Northern California.
We Can’t Replant
Were the loss a favorite book with a spine cracked so yellowed pages lose their grip, or a beloved sweater pilled from tender friction against the perimeters of things, we could stay fastened to roots, deep, but not so deep we can’t replant.
While spread within the borders of books and sweaters, a broader resonance beckons where blood and breath and winsome ways take hold our fictile hearts.
Brimming love these captured hearts endorse a higher calling where love persists as the loved perishes and roots detach beneath the weight of emptiness. Here we can’t replant.
Vehicles in a perfect row like soldiers in a march in front of nineteen identical miniature towers planted in a landscaped strip of brick chips, noses toward Chipotle and Starbucks, as conception at 72kW travels through a cable in an office park for worker bees where electricity hums softly like a team of bustling insects as thirsting sedans draw restorative energy.DMV, Stems, Replant
Drivers, suspended from conversation, caught for half an hour between hurry up and what if stare at small screens to scramble then unscramble remaining obligations of the day. Or they abandon personal sanctuaries behind windshields for necessities or indulgences at Pet Smart or Jamba Juice.
A productive model created in a remote office means pairs of eyes need never meet and voices never mingle.