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Image by Michael Dziedzic

Brice Maiurro 




She tells me that now and then
she likes to put on this owlhead.

She explains to me that when she
has her owlhead on, she can see
in so many directions at once.

She says it slows her down,
being able to view the world
in such a panoramic way,
through the eyes of an owl.

In her day-to-day life,
she tells me, sometimes
it feels like she has
tunnel vision,

and like she only has
three minutes
for everything.

That is why I put on
the owlhead,
she tells me.

I can watch the moon
move slow at night.

I can see the field mice
below me in its glow
and grab them
in my claws,
she tells me.

But sometimes,
she tells me,
when I put on
the owlhead
I can’t sleep.

I become restless,
spooked by each
and every sound.

I am consumed by it,
and I never know when
the fear will come
for me.

I tell her maybe you
shouldn’t put on the owlhead.

Maybe instead just take off,
now and then,
into the forest at night.

I have tried that,
she says to me,
but there is nothing for me
that makes me feel
the way I feel
when I wear
the owlhead.

There just is nothing
that slows me down
the same way as this







In Response to the Question 

You Asked Me at the Party

You asked me a question
and I didn’t know how to answer
so I didn’t answer.

I just
let you know
I’d get back to you before
I backed away
and out of the party
to drive home
at night
where the headlights catch the trees
like a dance that no one but me
knows about
and Lou Reed is Pale Blue Eyes
on the radio
and I am Lou Reed is Pale Blue Eyes
on the radio and those trees
they guide me in like a rattling death song
lulled out of the driver’s seat
and floating over the sacred valley
humming like an old AC unit
and me humming back
like a leaf caught near the blades
but don’t worry—
never caught
by the blades,

only by the wind
and its brother hum,

that is the word that holds my hand
and every other word is alphabet cereal
floating soggy in the milky waters of
the mind,

the lover with her feet up on
the dusty dashboard,


the rain I can hear
but continuously wiped away
from the windshield,

every number is a good number
and every stoplight is a blessing
and Lou Reed is Pale Blue Eyes
on the radio on a road
with the trees
at night
in the rain
and every ounce of me
rising through me
like a great exodus
of ecstatic wow and spirit
and driveway and park,


and I stay in the rain
in the car
and I lean my seat
all the way back to God
and I think


oh yeah,
that’s what I could have said
to the question you asked me
at the party
but I forgot what it was already,
I just witnessed it 


floating along to a stranger
someone else.

About Brice Maiurro

Brice Maiurro is a poet from Lakewood, Colorado. He is the author of Stupid Flowers and the Editor-in-Chief of South Broadway Press. You can find him online at

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