Three Poems ~ poetry by Jason Fraley

VII.

Mother never mentions my brother.  She keeps him in a box.  He is endless but divided by even perforations.  He has so many ears.  Mother lets him out when she studies biology and anatomy.  I can’t hear whether he volunteers to help mother summarize the key steps in post-surgery infection prevention.  A dot matrix printer is the opposite of soft rain or liminal thunder.  Is this how new words are made?  It sounds like threads of skin being unspun, inked, and sutured stiff.  I creep to my desk’s edge, unable to sleep.  Mother’s arm glows halogen.  Her hair unspools.  From this angle, I can’t tell whether she’s smiling.

VIII.

Grandpa rocks as he watches birds congregate and scatter out our patio door.  He teaches me that birds use newspaper clippings—no relation to legal pads—to line their nests.  I learn math by being a ledger:  2 bags of sunflower seeds in shells ($15) plus 3 bags of cracked corn ($12)?  $66 I answer quickly.  Through his grin, grandpa says you’ve been moonlightin’.  I’m not sure what this means, but he repeats it often.  When I beat him at miniature golf.  When I’m pinned to the refrigerator for my test scores.  One evening, I ride the attic fan’s current downstairs to watch the moon rise with grandpa, but he’s already lowered the blinds before the first firefly flashes.

IX.

Grandpa’s favorite magic trick is to remove his hair when I’m not looking.  Sometimes, he’ll curl me up, fit it on my head, which gets easier every year as I add sheets.  I look distinguished with graying temples.  The first time grandpa performed this trick, Mother claims I skittered away, hid behind a pyramid sock pile.  Once, his hair fell onto my lap as he titled for his wallet to pay for vanilla ice cream.  Most magicians chant abracadabra or twirl their wand.  Grandpa smiles a smile of amber teeth and molasses gums.  His hair isn’t heavy, but he’s taken to keeping it on his knee as he watches for cardinals.  Mother whispers that as they age, wild animals instinctively spend more time behind glass without even realizing it.

From a series of poems called Paper Trail.

Jason Fraley is a native West Virginian who lives, works, and periodically writes in Columbus, Ohio. Current and prior publications include Salamander Magazine, Barrow Street, Jet Fuel Review, Quarter After Eight, West Trade Review, and Pine Hills Review.