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Bob Bradshaw
Soon
The sky was never so lovely
as that day we picnicked. The grieving
were far away, in another pocket
of the cemetery. A smudge
hugging the ground
was the widow.
But where we were the air
was fragrant with hibiscus.
We laid out our lunch
on a checkered cloth of reds
and whites. My mother
told me stories
of my father. He was a shadow
bending over her behind the church,
his kisses more memorable than any sermon.
There was a headstone
leaning, as if a Mr. Sanders
had grown restless in his sleep
and rolled onto his side.
There were children's graves not much
bigger than shoe boxes.
And marble houses that looked
like small libraries.
And when I asked my mother
when we would come here
again she answered
Soon.
Thank You, To The Woman Who Tried To Kill Me
She slipped a .38 caliber from her purse,
pressed it against my head,
whispered I love you.
The pressure of the barrel
was like a cold thumb
applied to an artery.
My leg muscles
twitched.
Who are you? I asked.
"That's the problem, "she says.
"Everyone knows who you are,
and tomorrow they'll find you
in the river.
Bon voyage," she whispered.
"I was your biggest
fan."
Across the room an amaryllis
had its leaves flung back.
The sun flashed in the window,
like a sheet of aluminum foil.
The world had a clarity
that it had never
had.
The gun clicked. A door slammed.
I swooned like a ribbon,
settling to the floor.
My life was now like hers:
Hers, a pile of laundry.
Mine, a street of confetti
waiting to be swept
up.
Bio: Bob is a programmer living in Redwood City, CA. He hopes to win the lottery soon and sail through life in a hammock. Recent and forthcoming work of his can be found at Eclectica, Blue Fifth Review, Apple Valley Review, Tattoo Highway, Loch Raven Review, Slow Trains and Boston Literary Magazine.
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