Jason Fraley

[Bare limbs crackle overhead.]

Bare limbs crackle overhead.  I reach up, grab an empty nest, this stick season’s harvest.

This saturated land where my every step summons an impromptu baptismal.  When I bend over, I feel an absent congregation’s weight.   

 Prayer #1: make my baby less biblically accurate.

 Prayer #2: reveal to me new stars named hairshirt, juggler, octopus, arachnid. 

 The hospital entrance resembles a mineshaft.  A small sliver from which most return. 

I recline facing the x-ray screen.  My baby dreams.  My womb is a cluttered closet.  The nurse has never seen so little dark space. 

Even the assembled ghosts want out.

I review an amputation consent form.  I can choose between one and eight limbs. As I hover my pen lower, dimples sizzle on my stomach. 

A few wayward bubbles float to my fingertips, help me sign my name. 

Jason Fraley is a native West Virginian who lives, works, and periodically writes in Columbus, OH. Current and prior publications include Salamander Magazine, Barrow Street, Jet Fuel Review, Quarter After Eight, Mid-American Review, and Okay Donkey.