by Jason Kahler

 

I wear my father’s winter coat because it fits and the driveway needs shoveling.

The zipper sticks.

Maybe that’s why I never saw him wear it, even in the worst storm, even at the end.

Spread out, opened on a table, the human body is red—yes, red of course—but also white and blue and surprisingly purple;

you can find the pieces hungriest for air by tracing the blush.

No one knows the anatomy of a finger like a nailbiter. Some ruins won’t heal.

I make my fingers bleed.

Overnight they bloom. Hot and swollen, they shine like dewy roses.

Strong teeth, vital gums. I never swallow. It must feel like half-chewed beetles. Carapace and thorax. The poke of each leg in the throat.

I lie.

I hide my hands. Red patterns inside every pair of gloves. And within Dad’s coat pocket, some change. An old envelope with math in his handwriting,

the soft edges frayed, folded paper, folded like wings, folded like feathers.

 

 

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Jason Kahler is a writer, teacher, and researcher from Southeast Michigan. His work has appeared in Bayou Magazine, Seneca Review, Orbit, College English, and other publications. He’s on Bluesky at @jasonkahler3.bsky.social and sometimes posts at jasonkahler.com.