Twenty Nine Years by J. Bradley

My brow, the ice in the half there glass
crinkled after you asked for a dance.

Hands on hips, I reminded my knees
and legs to sway, scolded my chin
for thinking of itself as a Cessna,
your shoulder the Atlantic.

I want to pretend every door frame
you stand in is a photo booth,
work up the middle school nerve
to kiss you as the flash laps
at our faces.

 

About the Author:

J. Bradley is the author of Bodies Made of Smoke (HOUSEFIRE, 2012). He lives at iheartfailure.net.