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.