I bottle the sweat snaking
down your bangs, inhale
the ether of your neck.
You will know too late
the millions I carry
sauteed in the summer
of my inseam.
dadswatchingdaughtersgettingdicked.com
She casts a glance over her shoulder
like salt, lower lip in her mouth as appetizer.
Keep the shirt on, she said to him,
as the fabric, his fingers, dig.
She only lets the right ones see
her mother's psalm on her lower back:
"If God loves you, the condom will break."
J. Bradley is the author of Bodies Made of Smoke (HOUSEFIRE, 2012). He lives at iheartfailure.net.
