there’s a word. when wrist deep. in intestines. palms a dish. for organs gumball small. various shades of bruise and rust. there’s a word. for warmth the same as. freshly dried flannel. ember whispers. salt-plump blisters. on my shoulders. skin a perpetual flush. a reenactment. of this. fish's gratitude. there's a word. for the slight fog. that forms. when someone removes. skeletons whole. who slides their knife. under lash-thick bones. and pops forth. a tapestry. held taught. by translucent stitches. there’s a word. maybe the same word. the steam grandpa shapes. when he purses his lips. tongues closed. his front tooth gap. whistles. an unfamiliar melody. when I ask for lyrics. to join him. he pauses. this song. doesn't need any words.
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.