TWO POEMS/ RYAN W. BRADLEY

Before He Was a Dead Arctic Explorer
after Paige Ackerson-Kiely

He told you his hands were chipped from blocks of ice
as he pushed them, cold and rough, under your dress
and ran them up the smooth snow white of your torso
until they cupped your breasts and with his tremendous
arms he shrugged the dress over your head. He said
he needed to memorize every curve of your body as he fit
into you like a glove and the chill was overtaken by heat.
Later he carved you from a glacier he discovered but named
for you, for your eyes closed against the blizzard and
the quiver of your thighs as they opened like a new season,
like the first summer this winter had ever seen. He carved
you from a glacier but was afraid to run his hands
along those curves, scared your likeness would melt
beneath his touch. You said, this is not the first time
I have been made by the blade of a chainsaw.

drowning, with hopes of poetry

my cock is a poem
and your whole body is a poem
and the world is a poem,
even with the blood
rushing in my brain
like tidal waves
drowning me.

sometimes
I feel like the only one
who notices
how beautiful you are,
my cock is,
the world is,
and then
it isn’t enough
just to be human,
to notice beauty,
to have my heart
broken daily.

it’s not enough
to fuck
like a caveman
lighting a fire,
but I keep trying
to write the poem
somewhere
between our bodies
and our hopes.

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