Swapping hands, the four nurses in the mirror grunt the logger’s bulk from a stretcher to lump the rickety bunk. Their motions jerk cool under his constant flop. A nurse uphooks his arm in a whitefin fashion, stump stitched to wrist in an image his reflection knows as negative orca. Before waking he’ll join a superpod spasm north, honing the bloodline to a forest above Seattle, a coast away on the same ocean where a friend once went for good. Together they’ll clink
a tall wine to their health and drain the bottle for the wife. She sped him in, stump swaddling an icy chest, after he tried to chainsaw the knot.
~ P.F. Potvin ~
additional pieces by P.F. Potvin appear in the print version of Sleepingfish 0.875
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