by Nancy Fagan

Four chambers filled with blood that rushes and pools in brief lakes until the liquid is thrust forward in waves. Electricity zooms from a to v and zaps most of the nodes. Except when it doesn’t. Then there is a dying of cells, a regression, a wisp of smoke and they’re gone, like your first boyfriend, the pair of prescription sunglasses the ocean claimed, or your dead mother. The current runs back and loops up and down again, useless, pathetic, flaccid. A full life becomes a three-quarter life. Unequal, it does not matter which part is bigger, or who tries harder anymore. Every side needs to kick in. Inferior, superior, the others. Juddering and pulsating together. 

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Nancy J. Fagan’s recent work can be found in Breath & Shadow, You and Me Medical Magazine, and Abilities, Canada. She is a registered nurse, holds a BA in English from Mount Holyoke College and is a candidate for an MFA in Writing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She lives in western Massachusetts with her husband and two ridiculous cats.