Amanda J Bradley

That Much

“Did they really drink that much?”
a fellow student asked in class
after reading The Sun Also Rises.

I might have blacked out the night before,
as I often did, asking friends to fill in
what I’d said and done in my fugue.

How much of my life did I erase
myself, still walking and talking
like a brainless doll, the kind with

a string on its back to set it in motion?
Like a dementia patient oblivious to her
surroundings, vanished even to herself?

My first drink of the night was prophetic,
blackout predicted in that initial sip.
Strange to me now how I did it anyway.

Yes, they really drank that much,

I want to say to the fit, straight-backed
guy who couldn’t fathom it. They were
unsure how to live, too. I am happier

now I can recall nights that nourish
me, drinking vitamin water before
drifting off into guiltless dreams.

 

Is It Me I’ve Murdered in My Sleep?

My dream recurs a variety of ways,
but it consistently lands on
horror: I have forgotten
I’ve murdered someone. I have
carried on with washing dishes
and earning tenure with the darkest
of secrets buried deep. Sometimes
I am walking through a field of wild
flowers when I recall. Once in a
suburban neighborhood, fire chased me
through the streets like retribution
when the memory surfaced.
Circumstances change, but
the startle to shame does not. I used
to wonder who the victim
represented. The ex who stalked
me for years? Stole my car and wrote
a bad novel about us? Was it more
symbolic, like the murder of patriarchy?

Some year or other, a friend suggested
everyone in our dreams symbolizes
a version of ourselves. Did I forget
I’d murdered myself? What would I be
like had I not glamorized drunk writers
and their drunken lives, had I chosen
a less rebellious, more humdrum path
to middle age? Surely, I shed some
authenticity this way -- the girl who
pirouetted around the kitchen while
her grandmother baked cherry pie,
who read Montgomery, the Brontes,
Plath, Hinton trying to figure out life,
who babysat a child with leukemia
and tutored Korean immigrants,
a girl so earnest it was painful?

I still see that girl flash to action
in my persistent idealism, but perhaps
I murdered her to escape her
disappointment, what she discovered
when she grew up and found the world.

Rehab Homework #5: Relapse Prevention

Relapse is a sneaky bitch. She slides
up next to you, silent and calm, stands
there awhile until you accept her
steady presence. She wears jeans,
an understated beige sweater, small
gold earrings. Her speech is soothing
as she swears you’ve got this. Just one.
Just tonight. You’re strong, she says,
almost under her breath. She believes
in you. She feels as if from your dreams.
Something trustworthy about her
lulls you into willingness, a desire
to please her. You might sever your
pinky finger with a kitchen knife for her
or noose your neck and leap from
a bridge. But all she asks is just one.
Right now. So easy. You love her,
the modesty of her. I have known
her most of my life, long enough
to move away when she sidles up.

 

Amanda J. Bradley has published three poetry collections with NYQ Books: Queen Kong, Oz at Night, and Hints and Allegations and has published poems, fiction, and essays widely in anthologies and literary magazines such as Paterson Literary Review, Chiron Review, Lips, Rattle, The New York Quarterly, and Gargoyle. Amanda is a graduate of the MFA program at The New School, and she holds a PhD in English and American Literature from Washington University in St. Louis. She lives in Indianapolis, and her website can be found at www.amandajbradley.com.