2 poems

CHOIR 

There was a hole in the wall behind the piano. 

I thought it listened when Mrs. Fields played, 

bobbing her head and nodding to us 

when she wanted us to come in, 

which we did like broken guitar strings 

or bricks through a window, 

thirty of us all shattering. 

A few of us could actually sing. 

Sarah Renke, with her twisted limbs, 

sounded like a month of flowers 

and played piano though 

we had to help her to the bench. 

Carl Johnson had a deep voice 

that wore its own overcoat  

and warmed the whole room. 

Mostly, we were a bunch of spiders 

crawling around dozens of webs, 

but every now and then the noise died, 

our ribs hummed and something in our bellies 

opened in time with everything. 

Then we looked around at each other shocked 

and stopped singing.  

Mrs. Fields shouted, “No! No! Keep going,” 

but we were stuck in some reverie 

and couldn’t go back upstairs 

to wherever the sound came from. 

I thought maybe that hole 

swallowed and stored all our moments, 

whether or not we hit the right pitch. 

ON HOLD 

We deeply care about you and your interests 

and apologize that all our representatives, 

produced by a long line of phone calls 

and strands of wire connected to what you ordered 

are busy right now helping themselves 

to some tissues and half tablets of Alprazolam. 

In fact, the decision for you to call 

is increasing the popularity of waiting, 

so we have made the decision to give you 

a longer list of prompts, so you can narrow down 

just what lane you want to stand in. 

Instead of Miles Davis or Muddy Waters, 

we have smoothed out a soft facsimile of sound 

where you can tell what’s been discontinued 

just by how it sits heavy in your gut. 

So we are sending you our consideration 

across centuries of your laboring ancestors 

while we pour bowls of liability and cover them 

with cellophane so they don’t spoil. 

We are sure you understand and will be with you 

as soon as possible. For now, please press 

one to be called Madam, two for Master 

and three for Murderer. Press one if you would 

like to go down the way of an ax, 

two for a rope or three for drowning. 

We beg the branches of eternity to renew, 

so we have time to make you welcome, 

to finally take your call. 

Jonathan Brechner is a graduate of Pacific University's MFA program whose poetry has been published in Decomp, Silk Road and other journals. He is a teacher and guidance counselor in Scottsdale, AZ where he lives with his wife and cat, Mochi.