Jason Fraley
[Bare limbs crackle overhead. I]
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.
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.