The Most Pleasing Cure

apartment windows

exist to be forgotten or ignored,

they hold a place in a catalogue

between bus fares and instant pudding but 



in the rain they become exceptional,

if only briefly, and I open them wide

and lean my naked body into the moist air

and allow my cigarette smoke 



to hang

like a puppet

humid and green



it is the most pleasing cure

for the desire to check our teeth

or split ourselves to the base like old trees

to count our rings



 to pause our fingers over the richest places

where all the foods and waters pooled

and we grew strong and perfect for a season



it is medicine for the ballot of age,

the bill that crosses its legs over our chests

and interrupts our dancing with a

consumptive cough.

© Jamie Bradley