by Frances Klein

after Jose Hernandez Diaz

I leave the church to find something to borrow. From the street I hear the band warming up, violinists and bucket drummers and flautists and spoon players all tuning to Concert A. I walk down the street in leather shoes so fresh they still smell like the open fields the cow called home. On the corner, a little girl is flying a kite. “Can I borrow your kite?” I ask, but a gust of wind pulls her up into the sky. The wind tousles my hair, which I grew myself. I go into the deli and ask the old man behind the counter if I can borrow his cufflinks. He says he stole them from a coffin, and it’s no kind of luck to bring dead gold to a living altar. He slips me a fresh Gala apple, which I tuck into the pocket of my tailored suit. At the tattoo shop next door, a biker is baring her arm for the needle. When I ask for something to borrow, she gives me her place in the chair. The tattoo she lends me is a glossy heart with mom in white script at the center. The biker pulls the apple from my pocket and takes a bite. The apple is the same red as my bicep’s borrowed heart.

Frances Klein (she/her) is an Alaskan poet and teacher. Klein is the author of the poetry collection Another Life (Riot in Your Throat 2025). She is a founding editor of Flight: A Literary Sampler, and editor at The Weight Journal. Klein’s writing has appeared in Best Microfictions, The London Magazine, Rattle, The Harvard Advocate, HAD, and others. She is on Instagram and Bluesky @fklein907.