The Corduroy Mtn. Self-Portrait With The Contagion Jason Fraley The contagion guts winter. From frozen wings or frozen lungs or both, geese slap the roadways, dead. Authorities think snow could be gathered into a flash that precedes a great magic trick, when the contagion makes every American disappear, misplacing them in the process. Snow stashed inside whisky barrels and abandoned salt mines. Hey, I'm okay--without electricity, that's one less bill to pay. Power plants idle, Chernobyl replicas, adding another layer of steely gray. I felt rustic, attuned to nature, until the contagion opened me up one night, strung Christmas lights around my skeleton. Now, how much do you love my green eyes? My festive hue, which changes in ten-second intervals, might disrupt your sleep schedule, but hasn't my story taught you anything about sleep? You won't hear the contagion's footsteps, the contagion's car door shut. I've watched tv shows on burn victims, and there's no need to dream about them any longer. Try to lie prone, unwilling or unable to speak. Try that. Try that until the third or fourth night when you can't stay awake any longer. Then hope the contagion's voice sounds like a goose crashing into the metal roof. previous | next Added to The Corduroy Mtn. on December the ninth in the year two thousand and eight.