and other expressions
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BRUZON
that might work for a woman like me, with a hole where my hole should be. my matrix loves scrutiny is full of scarcity keeps me in need in need in needthirty-minute hypnosis to keep asleep until I’ve been splayed and shot. poor overheated starconjures city conjures meshskin crashing, crashing, I’ll soon be where you…
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*O Death!
a glimpse into my journey through grief in honor of the anniversary of my Father’s death
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The Disappearing Act
By S. Bruzon you’re asking (pleading) show me where the light is. / unrepentant, I ask you to undress me. / you are a nonconformist that has tried to conform– / you strip me from behind and try to wear me like a uniform. / I, too, have tried to wear you. / I, too,…
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My (?) Body
The question of bodily autonomy captured in the span of three debilitating–but necessary–days of shooting. This is my truth–and a truth that all women share. Always sacred, often enraging, occasionally akin to a crime scene: womanhood. My (?) Body and The Wandering Womb digital photographs with overlayed scanned drawing. both by Bruzon. a photographic exploration…
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72923
the bulbs exploded first, then Dad’s aorta burst. / don’t leave, I’m going. / I didn’t leave, unknowing / he would be buried in July. / the light, still-born and dry, and I ask, is he without body now? / no more skin suit, no more chamber? / are we strangers again, father, are we…
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my sister’s arrival
When I lived alone, I asked for you over and over in my child voice. / When you were coming, I waited and waited, with my child patience— impatient. / And then, / you arrived like the sun to my windows / and spilled through every white blind, / into my heart, into my being.…
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one-way admission
I bring my song to you last, / I bring myself: / barefoot and restless with longer hair and nothing to protest anymore / desiring you still, losing that war. / I am the girl you fell in love with expanded. / with your name on my body branded. / and granted, you are the…
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Conversations with Ceilings
God i say i feel small / but i don’t fit on the hangers in closets / i swim in a sea of my own toxins / i walk on the walls. / and i use my voice more than my body, / for a woman that’s not right. / i steal the light give…
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Portrait of Myself as a Vessel for Freudian Desires
I’ve seen three psychics since I let the idea of us go, and a psychiatrist who flirted with me / because he was your age, so he figured he had a chance / because I’m fragmented, so this is romance. this is romance: / masculine projections that are never enough. / old hands, lonely in…
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HOW TO VOTE
If you need help with any of these steps, reach out! I am here for you, as are many others. You will feel so good walking out of that polling place knowing that you used your voice. NOW LET’S TALK… I don’t want to spout some “liberal” stuff at you because I don’t care for…
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A Love Poem
VOWS by Stephanie Bruzon for B this is the part where the mystique dries up and turns to mold. / this is the part where furniture imprints on naked skin, and shoes are put to dry in the sun. / where it matters not that something is happy, where it matters only that it is alive. / this is…
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*Life as a young artist
*creative liberation, creative blocks, thoughts of failure, the meaning of success, ,uncertainty, fate, a change of plans. Art has followed me for as long as I can remember. It is the lover that comes in though my window at midnight. It is the baby that whines all night in the crib until I put it…
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Amalgamation 4
1(I do not wish, I ask) if ever there was a desert in your chestthat I could catch fast–yourwind-drivensandsat my feetwisdom, the texture of pulpwhen you speak–I pick at my teeth.I don’t want to get involved.we identify foreign speciesand collect bark for the pocket of my overallswemix our names wemix our livesmy wild horsesrapture through meshes of golden light andyou stare…
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The Certainty of an Animal
by S. Bruzon a night out of the expected, someone who tends to my ailments, buildings on fire with laughter, the night is a flame, however you choose to need me–however, you choose. I give you what remains: my toolbox ofblues, soaken silver shoes that walk on water and hover over Earth oh let me…
Steph Bruzon 