Savannah Bradley
No One is Looking For You
At the window, I drag my fingers down my ribcage,
thumb each crevice and wonder how much sound
I can keep inside myself. The trees rage, a line
of burnt bouquets against the coal-night sky, wavering.
My little dread, my small child crying out,
towel to my wrist. My need for wreckage
dried between cracks in the linoleum.
The light in the laundry room−
left on, and again, all undone.
Wet sleeves hang from the washing machine
like the arms of an octopus, slither out and kiss
the inside of my wrists, wrap around them twice−
I grin at the ease of this.
The thin cephalopod limbs
slide up my arms, slow and hold me closer,
and I think, almost, they are going to touch my face.
Yanked to the ground, flat and face-down.
I lift myself, embarrassed crustacean.
All angular, I scuttle off.
I take a shower. Sit on top porcelain and clutch
a towel to my breastbone. Rub my back raw-dry.
The tenderness in the eyes begins.
Staring into the mirror:
Hair drip, drip, drips−
the sad snakes of Medusa.
My blue-blush face, wailing.
thumb each crevice and wonder how much sound
I can keep inside myself. The trees rage, a line
of burnt bouquets against the coal-night sky, wavering.
My little dread, my small child crying out,
towel to my wrist. My need for wreckage
dried between cracks in the linoleum.
The light in the laundry room−
left on, and again, all undone.
Wet sleeves hang from the washing machine
like the arms of an octopus, slither out and kiss
the inside of my wrists, wrap around them twice−
I grin at the ease of this.
The thin cephalopod limbs
slide up my arms, slow and hold me closer,
and I think, almost, they are going to touch my face.
Yanked to the ground, flat and face-down.
I lift myself, embarrassed crustacean.
All angular, I scuttle off.
I take a shower. Sit on top porcelain and clutch
a towel to my breastbone. Rub my back raw-dry.
The tenderness in the eyes begins.
Staring into the mirror:
Hair drip, drip, drips−
the sad snakes of Medusa.
My blue-blush face, wailing.
Overture with Everything Careening
In the dream there was an entire spool of gauze
wound up in my eye socket−
I pulled the whole thing out.
Let it all fall out of me while I stood there,
the material collecting in neat folds
onto itself at my feet.
A song clicks on repeat, squeak in the ceiling−
the neighbor, pacing.
The piano in the song in tempo with the squeak.
Some candles smoke, blown out and unfurling
toward my neighbors footsteps above.
Sudden symphony.
I kneel into the pile of gauze and gather
it all into my arms.
I run through a small square-footage, unravel
the pile in large, magnificent loops.
I leap like a flame flickering.
The desperate need to cover every inch
of my new home causes me to whap into the walls,
bruise my shoulder blades. I stagger forth,
trip over my own toes and collapse,
a small heap at the center of the spool.
I look out at how it’s laid−
a mess or a pattern, just a pile in its plain form.
wound up in my eye socket−
I pulled the whole thing out.
Let it all fall out of me while I stood there,
the material collecting in neat folds
onto itself at my feet.
A song clicks on repeat, squeak in the ceiling−
the neighbor, pacing.
The piano in the song in tempo with the squeak.
Some candles smoke, blown out and unfurling
toward my neighbors footsteps above.
Sudden symphony.
I kneel into the pile of gauze and gather
it all into my arms.
I run through a small square-footage, unravel
the pile in large, magnificent loops.
I leap like a flame flickering.
The desperate need to cover every inch
of my new home causes me to whap into the walls,
bruise my shoulder blades. I stagger forth,
trip over my own toes and collapse,
a small heap at the center of the spool.
I look out at how it’s laid−
a mess or a pattern, just a pile in its plain form.
Need with Knife in Hand
July: not sticky but slick,
the walls distended like breath seized
inside the lungs.
I’m quiet and I keep to myself
despite who I am.
My need is suppressed havoc.
Serrated blade−
I’ve placed my organs all out
on the countertop.
From outside, I see my heart; it has too many
eyes. The intestines with their sharp teeth
dig into the granite.
My cat soft-paws at the window
and watches me on the fire escape.
I face him and he crushes his face
into the glass, his mouth ruptures
wide with a cry I can’t hear.
He leaves one fang exposed and still
staring I trace my fingers across the grime,
his claw follows−
slow, wobbling grate.
A child counts in the parking lot
next door, 1, 2, 3… 9, 13, 10…
Someone could walk up the stairs.
Someone could walk up the stairs
and I’d run inside and put my organs back.
Bite marks and blood down my arms.
Bloated heart as always leaking
out onto the floor and it’s embarrassing;
because I thought I was being watched
I put everything back all wrong.
The organs don’t sit right.
Rinse the knife in the sink.
I will have to do this again tomorrow.
the walls distended like breath seized
inside the lungs.
I’m quiet and I keep to myself
despite who I am.
My need is suppressed havoc.
Serrated blade−
I’ve placed my organs all out
on the countertop.
From outside, I see my heart; it has too many
eyes. The intestines with their sharp teeth
dig into the granite.
My cat soft-paws at the window
and watches me on the fire escape.
I face him and he crushes his face
into the glass, his mouth ruptures
wide with a cry I can’t hear.
He leaves one fang exposed and still
staring I trace my fingers across the grime,
his claw follows−
slow, wobbling grate.
A child counts in the parking lot
next door, 1, 2, 3… 9, 13, 10…
Someone could walk up the stairs.
Someone could walk up the stairs
and I’d run inside and put my organs back.
Bite marks and blood down my arms.
Bloated heart as always leaking
out onto the floor and it’s embarrassing;
because I thought I was being watched
I put everything back all wrong.
The organs don’t sit right.
Rinse the knife in the sink.
I will have to do this again tomorrow.
Savannah Bradley is a Kansas City based poet and graduate student in the M.F.A. program at the University of Missouri, Kansas City. She is the recipient of the Durwood fellowship at UMKC and her work has been featured in the Bear Review, Barrow Street, and Moon City Review. Follow her on instagram @sav.brad and on Twitter @ _savbrad