Stonewall Jackson Rides Again
When you chiseled your name
into my lower lip, the combination
of your bra clasp fell out of my pocket.
You demoted my hands back
to middle school.
I unfold myself like wide-ruled paper;
there’s a checkbox somewhere.
The Hand Strikes One
Our stomachs rubbed, pale-skinned scouts
counting the merit badges on my carpet
before they hatched.
The reminder sits beneath my belly button,
alien tissue, a good morning anecdote
like the one we first had.
J. Bradley is the Web Editor of Monkeybicycle and the Falconer of Fiction at NAP. He lives at iheartfailure.net.
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