in a pinch. the world provides. fishing line waxed in river water. a dollar bill’s sharp crease. a stray hair wrapped around Overalls’ strap. a bundle of catfish whiskers. my long thumbnail sharpened, chewed flat. half a saw blade that still smiles. aluminum snuff lid. goose feather quill. crappie bones. ivy’s curled locks. driftwood splinter.
half the reason I eat. is to leave a jerky thread. or blueberry seed. wedged. smashed. between my molars. then my wrist twitches. cup and hinge. a reflex. a familiar sensation. the point of living longer. to recognize the right tool on sight. a feeling that quiets the heart. it's basically the same. to excavate. to extract. in tight spaces. in dark crevices. metal’s aftertaste. spit tinted brown by blood. what matters. these black specks. are they worth the sun?
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.