In a Motel off I-95, Each Tooth a Bullet
A pistol and a bible sleep together in the nightstand drawer.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand alert, ready to battle the whole world
I’d like to shave them all off with a razor blade
Instead I lay like a corpse for hours so you can paint me
as the jewel of your rough yellow prairie
the disturbia dark of your canvas beckons the unanswerable
—Am I more lovable because I am dying?
Years from now, all you will remember of me
is this painting
and all will you say is
This is a painting of a long dead beautiful woman
maybe remember how
your brush bit deep into me; painted my hair like Americana doesn’t reek,
yellow as amber waves of grain
but the rats have gotten to the harvest and we’ve all got TB
Back on the freeway but far from free: red driving gloves and lips to match all the blood
I drive the getaway car and you laugh with all your teeth,
a fully loaded smile
In a dream: a locked room full of crows
Sins of vanity bleed forlorn colors
as I avoid all mirrors and bodies of water
I lie down in the middle of the dirt road, under a canopy of oaks
lay under the leaves like a lover
expect the trees to embrace me just the same
but the difference is the trees never leave–at least,
I never will be old enough to watch them wither away
they’re too big and strong for that
Don’t point that gun at me, point me to an eternity I can wrap my fist around
and squeeze
Leia K. Bradley (she/they) is a Southern born, Brooklyn based writer and lesbian performance artist, as well as an MFA Poetry candidate at Columbia University. She has work in Poetry Project, Ubiquitous, English in Texas, Tarot Literary, Versification, Wrongdoing Magazine, and more, and can be found dancing through candlelit speakeasies or climbing barefoot up a magnolia tree with a tattered copy of Stone Butch Blues tucked into her dress. After climbing out from the coffin of her first divorce, she is accepting love and lust letters through her twitter @LeiaKBradley.