John Bradley

From the Empire of Rusting Nails

This house leans toward the sun, the garage tilts
toward the moon. All the broken words. Sure,
the alphabet leaks when it rains, but it works fairly well
most days. All the broken words collected in a basket.
I found your slipper this morning in the microwave
acting sullen while I lectured it. The river sometimes
chokes on all the broken words. She hid things in her
ankle: sunflower seeds, thumbtacks, a folding spoon.
Some try to glue together all the broken words. Yes,
the priest asked if he could scrub my body with steel
wool, and I asked him if I could stroke his back
with barbed wire. Do not attempt to swallow any
of the broken words. But don’t forget, says the Book
of Indivisible Fire, the tongue serves as a wick
on the darkest nights. Some days the broken words
smell of burnt rubber and other times of calla lilies.
I want only to watch the amber light from rusting
nails flicker over your face as you sleep. As if
I could keep you from the embrace of broken words.

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John Bradley's poetry has appeared in Caliban, Cloudbank, Diagram, Hotel Amerika, Lake Effect, North American Review, SurVision and other journals. His most recent book of poetry is Dear Morpheus: The Glue That Is You (Dos Madres Press). A frequent reviewer for Rain Taxi, he is currently a poetry editor for Cider Press Review.