a cityscape in morning

We paint clouds on ceilings, as if

they are so unfathomably high

our place lies beneath them. But I

have seen clouds consume

buildings, disappear them into

the gray ambivalence of above —

we say that they scrape the sky,

like the paintbrush against the

ceiling of my bedroom, but

that is a lie. They pierce it,

crease the cool crescent of

horizon and keep climbing. How

do we not see that we are skylings?

Perhaps it is our human hyperopia,

our inability to see that which lies

closest to our hearts and minds.

Inside, you see only mute grayness,

but you are in a cloud, you are flying

the anthills of our cities are as wondrous

as the intricate architecture of insects

some might say this is Icarus-pride —

what goes up and all that, but I say —

paint me clouds upon the floor, the walls,

that I may be reminded of our flight,

reminded that brilliance is most difficult to see

from within the light — reminded that this is

one thing we did right.

Sarah (Ember) Bricault is a queer neuroscientist and poet. Her fascination with the mind and how it processes information often finds itself in her poetry, as do themes related to mental health. Sarah's work can be found in Brown Bag Online, High Shelf Press, The Poeming Pigeon, and elsewhere. For more information on Sarah, check out SarahBricault.net.