Amid the bodies of the trees, or next to the sea, I stand perfectly still, a circle around myself. I am my own address. At home, I turn off the lights, think more clearly about invisibility. Whenever I pull back the curtain from the window, I hear the microwaves listening to me. They’re godless, like animals, but so are the gods. At room temperature, I talk to myself, anonymously. I’m the person I was when I was born, what I say isn’t a surprise. Sometimes, I wonder if the future is still interested in me, and I forget what to say next. The TV says, Ask your doctor if your heart is strong enough for love. Maybe I’m not just human, but here for some other use? Tonight, before you arrived, I secured the perimeter. I shot the snakes hiding between the cars parked across the street. Then I went for a walk. Are you sure you locked the door behind you?
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is a sociologist, and author of a collection of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015). He is also the author of three chapbooks of poetry and flash fiction, Democracy of Secrets, Coyotes Circle the Party Store, and Dancing School Nerves.Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, The American Journal of Poetry, Folio, decomP, Lunch Ticket, The Baltimore Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, and other publications.