a transcription of the poem read on the home page of this issue

by Krista Franklin

“Let’s close her up,”  
says, surgeon, Dr.  
No Name, masked under  
lights, white, 
hands wet  
with blood, rich  
and worrisome.  

Listen as the belly bubbles in  
its new arrangement; organs  
elbow each other like professionals  
in a crowded elevator.  
Try to create space and flow  
in an atmosphere of darkness, 
(and) invasive procedures.  

    * 

The blood on his hands is mine.  
The organs mine, all  
named, though I only know a couple,  
and never their rightful place 
like my mother, who never just breaks  
bones but fibulas, tibias,  
the proper names of things  
trapped in the vice of her mind.  

My mind is on the surgeon’s 
tray, the scalpel, the bounty carved from me.

Poem copyright 2026 by Krista Franklin. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Krista Franklin on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Mourner’s Corner,” “On Measure & Invisibility,” “High Priestess,” and  “This is not your poem.” 

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt