Sticky-slick dog vomit squishes up warm between my toes, and I would think the sun-hot asphalt in this snarled intersection was an odd place for dog puke, were I thinking of anything other than my love’s body strapped inert onto that orange plastic board, his head wrapped bloody in those foam-rubber chocks, the paramedics counting out their lift and swinging him deadweight onto their lowered gurney. They say I should ride with them and ask if I have shoes, my sandals casually kicked off in what remains of his treasured ’73 Midget, but I crane neck-brace down at my bare foot coated in his deep red blood and feel the life I once knew slipping, slipping away.
About The Author
Jay Parr (he/they) lives with his partner and child in North Carolina, where he's a lecturer in UNCG's nontraditional humanities program. He is honored to have work published or forthcoming in Roi Fainéant, Bullshit Lit, Five Minutes, Anti-Heroin Chic, Wrongdoing Magazine, Dead Skunk Magazine, Discretionary Love, Streetcake Magazine, and Variant Literature Journal.