Truths

By Tara Pryzbille Bradley

I had something to say but
There were noises louder than I and
Space and Time ran out on me

So tonight I’m going to drink a few
Yeah, and smoke a cigarette or two
And write a poem that tells the world
Amid the Noise and Haste and shit
Exactly what I think of it

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Winston Churchill is a Momma’s Boy

By Tara Przybille Bradley

on the beach we sat and he spoke to all of us about the state of things.

we listened.

i needed a heating pad for my back and a peri-care sitz bath, but the nurses at the pharmacy told me they couldn’t get one and to use felt cloth wicking salt water instead.

his mother was brunette and tanned but old still, and wrinkly. i helped massage her back, which winston appreciated, so he took a look at my poetry, he suggested that he and i and his mother go somewhere quiet to read it and discuss it in depth and at length. i left my purse behind.

was supposed to pick up my children, but didn’t.

i brought winston and his momma to the big, beautiful abandoned house that recurs in my dreams. i knew a way to get in. i had to squeeze through small spaces and climb difficult places. a spanish housekeeper was living there now, with her little boy, and she caught winston and his mother standing outside waiting for me to break in. she saw me hiding and told me to come in too. set us a table for tea where winston sat and read my poetry.

a photo of a poem written in sticks and grass upon a wire fence. “i came to make amends” it said, “but instead i left it on the fence”.

he liked it. even was ecstatic about it.

and i called my mother who wasn’t angry that i’d abandoned my children once she heard where i was. and she yelled to my dad, “you’ll never guess who she’s with…ulysses!”

i didn’t know he had a nickname

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