IN THE OUTSIDE THERE WAS A GLOW THAT WAS DEFINITELY NOT SWEAT
In her sleep, she smacks her mouth
like a broken Geiger counter. Her name
drains out of my ears, into the pillow.
I clear our clothes away from my side
of the bed, creating an evacuation route
before daylight slinks through the window
like a bad TLC song.
When she finds a shirt or sock left behind,
it is not intended to act as an anchor,
memorabilia for her hand when reliving
this night; she will never know how
I survived the cancer of her fingertips.
No Church in the Wild
The pew creak of bed springs
heralded your arm cinching
around my waist.
My back melted onto the dip
of your stomach, forearms;
I was a fondue of sighs.
When I free my arms, erase
the Spackle of sleep, I’ll convert
your words into devout Christianity
one wrapper at a time.
J. Bradley is the Falconer of Fiction at NAP. He lives at iheartfailure.net.