Spikes
Brad Rose

From across the street, I watch the steaming August rain beat down on you like a childhood whipping. As you cross the glistening pavement to meet me, your hair coiled wet, like dark cobras, I lean in toward you and savor your faint exhalation of whisky as it rises over the candied scent of an indeterminate cologne.  Fallen like a sexy accident, the left strap of your tank reveals the tiny whorl of a black rose tattoo blossoming beneath the wet skin of your bared shoulder.  Why you love me, I haven't the slightest idea.  I prefer to think it's because I am the greatest lover in the world, but I know I flatter myself.  It's more likely it's because I walk you home in the torrent, without touching you. Not once flinching at the spikes of summer thunder.



Brad Rose

was raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. His poetry and fiction have appeared in: Third Wednesday, Monkeybicycle, Off the Coast, Barely South Review, San Pedro River Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Tattoo Highway, Imagination and Place, Right Hand Pointing, SleetMagagazine.com, Six Sentences, Staccato,  Fiction at Work, Six Little Things, Short, Fast and Deadly, and other publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: http://bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com/


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