TWO POEMS BY JASON FRALEY
Imprint
This fast –
a monochrome landscape, paralysis.
No, not a hallucination, the retina’s ghost.
These are shells of last year’s snow drifts.
Where is my body’s shapeless imprint?
When my sunglasses toppled into traffic.
Ever since, the world pulses with hazy light.
Even now, slush-lodged pebbles blur into stitches of text.
That long since divine trauma, an attempt at up.
She pulls on my fedora – not until we have room to pull over.
Dream Sequence 93: Onward, Onward
All these blank pages. Pink flurries. I have erased everything. I am a hospice whisper. Its
doors have closed. Not for the lack of dying. Rather, the multiple choice entrance exam: no
questions, page after page of c) 100 years. Which is daunting even to those without oxygen
tanks. I cannot make the commitment. I still covet rudimentary siege weapons. For example,
the catapult. Here are the blueprints for something that exists only as a museum exhibit. Where
it no longer hurls cauldrons of tar through fog. By now, all the enemy soldiers have zippered
mouths. Some advice for the generals: violence has a distinct sound. Not the sound of
snapping grass beneath wheels. Even if that’s how I imagine Greek fire. Rediscovered. This
water in my mouth will do nothing.
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Jason Fraley
works at an investment firm in West Virginia and is
pursing his MBA. His wife and cat see him occasionally. He has
appeared or is forthcoming in Forklift Ohio, Redactions, The Hat,
Pebble Lake Review, Caketrain,, and No Tell Motel.
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