by Jude Brancheau Issue: Spring 2016
From the tic-tac-toe of an undressed
window, morning’s a searchlight and

has it cornered. Her mirrored
wardrobe, my bed—some of our mess

mapped into the carpet, there’s nowhere left
it can hide. How many times did it

climb the Andes of our sheets, stop
and start all over us as we dreamed our fear

of heights? Or maybe deep breaths talked,
my sleeping embrace crossed you

off and its legs became another’s
fingers playing their way into sex.

The heart, my dead friend, also gets small
when crushed. Who knows how long

it never came out to scare us.

Jude Brancheau

Jude Brancheau teaches Western literature and English composition at Ming Chuan University in Taipei, Taiwan. He has also taught in Hiroshima, Japan; Gwangju, Korea; and, back in his hometown, at The University of Toledo and Owens Community College. He received his MA in English from Miami University and his poems have appeared in Southern Poetry ReviewIndiana ReviewCold Mountain ReviewNorth American ReviewThe Florida ReviewPotomac Review, and elsewhere.