When Facing Agents Anxiety, by Kane Williams

Rotten, Heavy body

by Rod Meyers by Liam Strong

the ambulance gets lost in not a snowstorm but the haze of Ativan. we end up in Rogers City, which was meant to be Alpena. we lounge our necks at the sardines lightless in the parking lot of the incorrect hospital. “oh,” says the EMT driving. “oh,” replies the EMT with us in the back. “oh,” we think, our arms corralled to the gurney like bundles of hawthorn. not-so-hidden beneath the blanket, our arms have roadmaps leading toward wherever we point. currently, our arms are pointed back toward home.

we read a book about ghosts in heaven. we read another about megalodons. military plague ship fiction. backpacking the Appalchian trail. we read plenty and not enough. we think about how people describe psychiatric hospital walls. the canon dictates: abysmal white. our reality at Pointe East: kalamata olive. hardwood floors. our arms will eventually look like olives for the bruises. the rends of our right arm resemble beastclaw. we call the beast by our own name. makes it feel familiar, comforting, a ghost limb awaiting severance. we tell ourselves the beast is a puppy. we name the puppy Winnipeg.