Issue 7, Winter/Spring 2009

[Pray the disease is composed of dark matter], by S. Jason Fraley

Pray the disease is composed of dark matter and your retinas – pulled free, stretched thin – are cloudy Petri dishes.  Under the microscope’s light, cells ricochet endlessly, no attempt to embrace.  I was not prepared for this.  It’s no coincidence that the tide has turned away from us, leaving a pyre in its wake.  It’s too late to find a secret longitude that connects the poles without crossing land.  Fireflies have already clustered above us.  Once, I asked you to choose a temperature, but you refused.  Now, blinded, you are convinced a lighter is jingling in my pocket.  It’s just my keys, I promise.  A rope doused in gasoline leads to my car.  A shot glass of holy water dissolves in the heat of this unfortunate morning.