Kristen Orser

Dear hysteria,

My girlishness has sharp teeth.  In May, my laughing spleen resembles the limits of the world: It feels impossible to get out of bed. 

The aim here (hypothetically) is to have everything at once:   Double.  Bipedal.  Bisexual.  Wings.

Yes, nothing can stop someone from nailing someone else's body to a bedpost, but I'm tired of sounding like a bell and this day feels like a thousand years.  Too much pollen in the air. 

I grow another baby in a petri dish and watch my hair fall out.  In the not body, I cut the tongue and make room for something to grow—                                    

                                                The problem is bodily—         bodily attachment to things like pretzels and duvets.  To things that have limits and cannot be, over and over, shared. 

Apples and oranges?  No, no.  Not at all. 

                                                                        It is more like everyone on the bed at the same time, listening to the long winters and what goes through our minds.  We can't put anything in words

                                                            and we talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk—

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