Valentine

By Jason Fraley

I have broken my shovel on frozen ground.
Its handle divines nothing.

Even if I sneak into the house.
Even if I draw a map with ash and improvised memory
on your back while you sleep –
there is no gold buried here.

Go to the desert and sift through the earth.
Dig your way to heaven –
I separated my shoulder trying.

I will stay behind and write you letters,
keep them in an unlocked drawer.
If the sun has not blinded you, read them
when you return. The message is the same

even if the ink has faded:
we cannot afford our bodies for long.

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Jason Fraley works at an investment firm in West Virginia and is pursing his M.B.A.
His wife and cat see him occasionally. He has appeared or is forthcoming in Redactions,
Confluence, Words on Walls, Pebble Lake Review, Stirring, The Salt River Review,
and elsewhere.