Jason Fraley

[The taxidermized night bulges, ramshackle,]

The taxidermized night bulges, ramshackle, amateurish, the work of hands eager to dispense with the last witness. 

Look: a tuft of stuffing spreads low, ghost-like, fibers resplendent.

I carry a knife for moments like these.  A small incision in the night’s abdomen and a mariner gets his sails.

Behind the velvet dermis, a vein of stars circulates.  It shifts directions based on the constellation I imagine.  The light thins when I dream of a taloned beast or archer that never misses.

Markets have two requirements: (i) demand and (ii) even more demand.

A private collector—a woman with innumerable tongues—casts the wining bid, hangs the dark acreage behind her lighthouse.  She notices the beacon quiet, filament crackling as if bending its knees for the first time. 

Jason Fraley is a native West Virginian who lives, works, and periodically writes in Columbus, OH. Current and prior publications include Salamander Magazine, Barrow Street, Jet Fuel Review, Quarter After Eight, Mid-American Review, and Okay Donkey.