[Pray the disease is composed of dark matter], by S. Jason Fraley
Pray the disease is composed of dark matter and your retinas – pulled free, stretched thin – are cloudy Petri dishes. Under the microscope’s light, cells ricochet endlessly, no attempt to embrace. I was not prepared for this. It’s no coincidence that the tide has turned away from us, leaving a pyre in its wake. It’s too late to find a secret longitude that connects the poles without crossing land. Fireflies have already clustered above us. Once, I asked you to choose a temperature, but you refused. Now, blinded, you are convinced a lighter is jingling in my pocket. It’s just my keys, I promise. A rope doused in gasoline leads to my car. A shot glass of holy water dissolves in the heat of this unfortunate morning.