"Wilted Things" by Kristen Orser

Arriving, Not All at Once After the ulcer, my aura was the color of marmalade.

There was an arrow I imagined and an apple on the head of an idiot, but it was probably my own head playing tricks on me. Like the growing light. Do you prefer less reference to war?

When I tell the story nobody pays attention, so I make most of it up. I add a whale, a girl with an oven and a head full of cotton. I make it a creation myth. And this decision is not a cupcake, not even a keystroke that forces a word, only my two brains preferring the knife, that unusual k, and the way it sends you back to the mushroom where I carved my initials in the cap.

I continue to re-experience numbing arousal. The day is not complete without a missile of uncertain origin. Even the rabbits are wondering what romance means.