Self-Portrait

with a Fairy Tale in which

I’m Mostly Eaten

JASON FRALEY

Introduction

The wolf eats me belt-buckle and all. Toenails and all. He pauses only when biting into my steel-plated head. He curses, says he has a steel plate in his own head. Ah, so this is the wolf I struck with a nine iron or scrap metal rod a few years back. (I’m head, neck, and genitals at this point, so forgive my lack of clarity.) I tell him the story. We laugh. His laugh has more phlegm—my blood and fat. He coughs hard, re-chews, swallows again. 

My Advice

Rather than polish my plate, which won’t reflect anything because your breath will steam it up, you should collect several others. Paint them black and learn to walk upright. You’ll never learn to walk properly, so you’ll look elderly or disfigured. People will assume the black plates are a top hat and come to offer assistance, say hello, or usher you back to the nearest nursing home. It’ll be like a buffet because most of the world exists in a vanishing point. 

Conclusion

He finishes eating me except for my genitals. I’m offended, but what can genitals say? Especially to a well-dressed elderly fellow who staggers, lost.