wildscape. literary journal

Abecedarian as Wraith
by Emily Corwin

Anemic enough for hospitals, but I stood awake, semi-functional.
Blood panel, the results blinging in my Baggu. I skip the meeting, stop for a

Cardamom-rose latte and a moment to finish my audiobook. Look: these
Desiccated prom roses, brought home after we chaperoned. They sag over the

Edge like still-molten glass: sand, soda, and lime unfixed. I began in earnest a
Food diary: more kale, more cashews, blueberries and blue juices.

Getting better feels a lot like getting by. I still sleep these extra
Hours every afternoon, beneath a drop-cloth of dopamine. The

Iron supplements are pale-small as doll shoes, mislaid.
Jean-blue car, I named him “Edward Cullen” and he sparkles. Tonight:

Kimchi Box tacos and red bean buns for a birthday and I’m in the
Lavender haze, a lavender phase. Most weekdays, I am a crybaby and a

Maniac. Ninety degrees mid-June and autumn looks real good right now. A cool
Negroni with a square of ice, a curl of orange rind I could wear as a ring. I go to Target for

Ollipop grape soda and hydrocolloid patches. The AC is broken at the cafe, but
Pistachio latte with pistachio milk and a cloudburst outside, hissing like the cloth of my

Quilted jacket with club soda, after my boyfriend knocked tomato juice on me,
Removing the lycopene, the scarlet. We were flying back from Alabama, from a

Snake in the bird box and espresso martinis. I tally my deficiencies:
Trichotillomania in bouts, hip impingement, joint dysfunction in my jaw.

Underneath an underworld–of milligrams and salts, I keep my
Visit summary for good measure, to measure my advancement towards health.

Where did my gloss go? Who called my bluff? The wilted medical
Exam, its table paper where I laid prostrate,

Your stylus deciding my fate. I didn’t water the
Zinnias; I forgot to tend my pieces, susceptible again to wreckage.

about the author // Emily Corwin