by Alison Kaiser

There’s a zipper at the back of my throat. It doesn’t have a toggle or a head. When the night air feels like static and I can’t move, I know he’s coming.

He hums as he sets down his satchel. Steel clinks as he rummages. He fits an instrument around my jaw and cranks.

 He works the zipper with a needle—parts it tooth by tooth.

“Bountiful harvest,” he says, right before he reaches inside. He tears out what he wants, then covers my eyes. I never know just what it is that’s being taken.

Alison Kaiser

Alison Kaiser is a former associate editor of Mudfish. Her work has appeared in Skidrow Penthouse, Free Radicals, and The Chamber Magazine, as well as other literary journals and anthologies. She lives with her husband and son in Brooklyn.