Five Poems by Jason Fraley
Labor Pangs 7
I didn’t choose to be born on this conveyor belt beneath a death apparatus. My breath sharpens each blade, polishes the web of mechanical arms. Small tufts of sliced air cool my face. The conveyor moves horizontally. The death apparatus looms six inches above me. In life, this is called good fortune. What are the odds—the warehouse contains miles of belt and this one death apparatus. The control panel glows in celebration of sparks. Did the operator have a fist-sized pang on conscience before lowering the death apparatus? I’m concerned by the empty applesauce container. It is within arm’s reach. Is sleep-eating a disorder or just efficient? The loose leather straps allow for some wiggle room. Some growth. The death apparatus is a mobile that whispers a patient, whirring song.Labor Pangs 9
Minutes after I’m born, I invent the airplane while on an airplane. Passengers who had assumed the rapture or an enormous hot air balloon find themselves headed to Orlando. A few shake their heads, questioning this outcome. A pilot emerges, sweat drying, explains this thing mostly flies itself. I order milk on the rocks. Outside my window, clouds billow unevenly, stretch thin in places, a motley collection of grays. What slapdash gift wrap. Should I accept the world barely veiled and made small? The airplane jostles for a few seconds, douses my tuxedo shirt. My sticky legs hang. This is what I deserve for also inventing turbulence.Labor Pangs 11
Leaning over the causeway rail, Scorpion asks about my birth. I mention halogens, after-images congealing, and threadbare towels. Scorpion shows me the scorpion tattoo on his forearm. His mother used to draw scorpions on clearance holiday cards. When she drew the perfect one, the paper softened. Scorpion unfolded behind the ink, hair waist length and body fully leathered. Below, the dam discharge crashes. I balance all knees and elbows on the concrete ledge. Have I ever thought about recreating my birth? Scorpion admits his hand quivers whenever he lifts a pen, his mother’s ghost agitating the arachnid’s many legs. An updraft of mist wets my face. I just haven’t found a light bright enough to abandon.[In Southern Appalachia, people don’t]
In Southern Appalachia, people don’t die. Rocks slide. Mineshafts collapse. Whitewater undercurrents tug. Side-by-sides flip.Here, the earth realizes it was a mistake to let us see the light.
Scientists conduct a survey: if you had seven days to prepare for a relative’s death, what action would you take? Other is the most frequently selected option, take a cruise the written-in description.
Other potential research studies:
[] Does death sit atop pier posts, knit moonlight-hued gowns?
[] How did cruise ship operators know I had parents?
[] Does grief ride wavetops like an origami swan until flight saturates its wings?
A family member texts you lowercase, unpunctuated condolences. Another sends a picture of a sun-drenched sloth, still in anticipation of this distant moment.
Would you lower the lifeboat? Would you recognize the night uncluttered by branches? Would the star-barnacled sky startle you?
You scroll through old messages. Really, she didn’t mind. She just wanted the family to have a good time.
Casual Terrorism in Ten Easy Steps
Fire1. Find a family reunion. Stage a series of cooler accidents. Wear different outfits each time. Don a coonskin cap and break the cooler’s handle. Wrap a boa around snug and unscrew a wheel until it wobbles free. The gathered parents may grow suspicious, but then you offer a share of the cooler’s bounty. Beneath the ice, so much ice they almost fall inside.
2. Spot the babies. Pay special attention to instances where leaves stick to their skin as though magnetically attached, who place leaves into their soft mouths.
3. Embers dry skin. Embers imprint memories into a baby’s skin much like a splinter. Don’t jump to conclusions. A pile of firewood is not a pile of babies. For now, be patient. Wait until nightfall when the parents doze lightly in their folding chairs. My studies show the transfixed babies will, at most, make steady clicking sounds as you abscond with them as though trying to spark. To ignite.
4. Name the babies similarly: S. Anna. A poet or theologian’s name. A name that starts high, haughty until you practice. With repetition, it gathers speed, a musical quality, races off your tongue hot with a type of love.
5. Remember when I suggested installing exterior cameras, nailing a No Solicitation placard to your front door. This is why you kept pesky chimney sweeps away, carefully swept each ash flake into the rusted milk can.
6. Meanwhile, parents recall a liminal figure with red eyes, but their long-lost friend silence distracts them. Still, continue the enparchmenting with haste. There are reasons to forget certain friends. One parent flips through cell phone pictures of babies. Another cradles thin air like an ex-smoker reaches for his sagging shirt pocket. Silence bleats a calming song soft as hairshirts.
7. Your living room teems with wrinkly palimpsest. The fireplaces exhales, a makeshift Pentecost. In another room, mix the ashes with water into a dim tincture. Find a soft brush with fibers that nestle into their brittle contours.
8. Remind the babies. Scatter the floor with inkwells, elementary school books on cursive handwriting, the moon in various phases, hieroglyphics. You’ll know the time is right when you turn on the ceiling fan, and a loose page flies away from a baby’s belly.
9. (Careful or the babies may smolder. While you were having cooler accidents, I took the liberty of removing the batteries from your fire alarms. Whatever you do, do not let the babies become smoke.)
10. Pay no attention to the mob, their pitchforks and zaftig torches, patrolling the sidewalks. Continue hanging the parchment from the clothesline. Sentences dry slowly. Later, you can read the babies a story. Make them memorize every word like a rite to a known future. I still read stories to mine nightly by candlelight. My favorite begins: I had a baby once.
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, Pithead Chapel, Yalobusha Review, Mid-American Review, and Okay Donkey.
