Get Off My Lawn
Son, if you are lucky enough
to watch your skin hide under
the bed, shake your fist
like an unpinned grenade
towards your grandchildren.
Tell them how you put my ashes
in a pinata for their mother’s
Quinceanera.
Tell them how many miles
times one hundred you walked
to wear grandma’s kisses
like a mask.
Tell them how you made me
a dinosaur on Father’s Day
out of pancake batter.
When they’re 18, give them
the treasure map leading
to your mother’s grave;
they will finally understand
the pricelessness of loss.
Subcontracting
You’re gorgeous like a skeleton
tied to a kite on St. Patty’s Day
but you gotta quit kissing
like an etherized patient.
I will throw self-help books
at your legs like untethered
wrecking balls, slip C-4 into
your hemlines.
When you start defecating
asteroid belts, you will know
how backslides are made.
Casanova
I’m so awful in the sack,
my premature ejaculation
time traveled five minutes
before we met, warning you
about the consistency of regret.
I will hold you open like
a defective stirrup, pretend
your cervix is a sidewalk.
You will chase your orgasm
like fireflies. Your mouth
will form broken mason jars.
You will wonder how we got
this far.
My answer will come with
blankets peeled back halfway,
a pillow seeded with strands
of my hair and this note:
Water the crop carefully.
In three days, harvest
the disappointment, sell it
to high school students;
I hear they’re hooked on it.
About the author:
J. Bradley is based out of Orlando, FL. Some of the magazines featuring J. Bradley’s work include riverbabble, The &, Ozone Park Journal, Dash Literary Journal, and Ugly Cousin and will appear in upcoming issues of decomP, Pure Francis, Danse Macabre and PANK. Check out his official blog, Failure Loves Company, at iheartfailure.wordpress.com.
