Arsenic Lobster poetry journal        Issue Six   2004
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Crow So
John Bradley

       Each morning at the end of the driveway the old man feeds his crows. This is where the son swells into the head of the father. The entire son fits into that not quite large enough to stand space, a five by five by five room with clouds for wallpaper.
       I don’t object to living in a cramped room. I don’t object to living in my father’s head, but I do object to living in both at the same time.
       Does your father know you’re lodging inside his head? asks a friend.
       Well, I haven’t gotten around to asking him. How do you ask your father if he notices anything different inside his head lately?
       Maybe you should ask your mother if he’s had those headaches again.
       All the son knows is that when his parents eat out, and they eat out nearly every time they eat, they ask for their leftovers to be placed in a to-go container. Next morning the old man at the end of the driveway scatters to and fro for the crows the clouds plucked from his son’s billowy head.

About John Bradley

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