by J. Bradley
Son, when you wear your tears
like a ransom note, you fill
the briefcase of your lower lip
with partial dental records.
When "no" squats in your stomach,
make joy kick in the rickety door
of your smile and evict it.
Open the black spiral notebook
of your heart, write this letter
to your future:
"If you're reading this,
you finally found the one
who kisses like a windshield
roaring against the highway.
You've had to walk over
many crossed out names
like skeletons, grind them
into tuition.
Cherish the first time you survived
the Mexican standoff of asking.
Wear the bullets you caught
with your teeth like a grill."
J. Bradley gets all hot and bothered by bookkake.
