By Brad Rose
Counting backward in dog years, I fell asleep during my trial. I dreamed I saw the ocean for the first time. The sea’s blue voice opened the sky’s solemn jaw, while the waves’ tingling excitement curled toward the beige sand. Monied sunbathers faced the water as if it were a god or a national bank. I awoke to the voice of my attorney addressing the jury, “But he was only firing blanks.” In perfect light, it would be plain to see the polygraph lied.
The rip current pulled like a rope toward the verdict. As if I could swim.
Brad Rose is the author of a collection of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015) and a forthcoming book of poems, Momentary Turbulence, from Cervena Barva Press.
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