Poems by John Bradley

DEAR ADA LIMÓN

When a hawk lands
in the backyard birdbath
and opens it wings
to claim: This too,
revolves around me
we know
this is poem-worthy
but not a poem
not until
a small squirrel
(pesky, perturbed,
and possessive)
leaps up
from groundcover
and plunges
into the hawk-occupied
birdbath
causing the hawk
to flee far
beyond the trees
this, this is a poem—
if it can be told
in one sleek breath.


MY OTHER HAND

I don’t want you to stall and stammer
in the asking because eventually you will. So

I’ll tell you now. My other hand,

the one you’re not looking at, has recently
grown a small mouth. It’s too shy

to say, Note the fruity, sweet breath.

The delicate, sharp teeth. Jaw that snaps
shut in one-tenth of a second. I tell you this

because I know eventually you’ll try

to poke or stroke it. It can detect the slightest
scent of self-delusion, my other hand. Awake

even while asleep, it preys upon the unaware. Look

at it now, quiet as a dangling modifier, waiting
for your next move. What’s it saying?

Lean close, to better hear me. My friend,

I swear it’s the other hand—so smooth
and toothless—you should beware.