A Poem by Brad Trumpfheller
Author: Poetry Editor
April 18, 2017
This week, a poem by Brad Trumpfheller.
On the day Adam relinquished his right rib for love, God looks
down at the curved piece of bone & named her the last thing ever created.
the sun hangs in the air like an apple
Adam was never in love, just had a dream once in a while. One day, God comes down
to the garden, asks Adam about his dreams, then touches him. He breaks.
the sun unrises
God isn’t a god at all, is the older boy that Adam stares at in art class,
with the blonde hair, the one who knows the basketball court like he’s fucked it.
the sky trains itself into unfamiliar pinks
God is smoking everything he shouldn’t be out of a pipe, sees Adam behind the CVS,
asks if he wants to hang out before school tomorrow, if he can meet him at dawn.
The night is always darkest just before
Adam’s dreaming again & this time God isn’t wearing a thing & this time God
asks Adam to hold his hand & sit underneath the weird tree in the Heights together.
the night sky bleeds starlight
Adam waits by the stop sign in front of the basketball court & two boys wearing hats cross
the street & pin him down on the corner & the whole city smells like asphalt
the moon is a bruise
God is wearing his black boots & now all Adam can taste is boots & teeth & God doesn’t
stop until Adam’s face looks like the sky if the sky was bleeding. A rib cracks.
dusk comes with the speed of a falling apple
Boys’ laughter plants itself in the street a garden blooms
the sun slinks behind the bone white clouds God looks
at the broken boy & uncreates the world
BRAD TRUMPFHELLER is an undergraduate student at Emerson College. Their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Nashville Review, Assaracus, Muzzle, and elsewhere.