Hornets grow from the ground like grass, stingers up. Our minds opened by mescaline, we walk through this field barefoot, mindless of pain or toxin. Anyone allergic to wasp stings would already be dead. The sun sets orange over the mountain. The elbows of my brown sweater are frayed. We are eating a diet consisting solely of Thai chicken soup made with coconut and lemon grass. Despite the infusion of coconut, I suddenly feel itchy all over. I compulsively consume an entire package of Benadryl. Strange as it sounds, my cousin killed herself with an overdose of Benadryl. The coroner could not tell me how much Benadryl that would take. No one kept a record of how many empty packages surrounded her body. My friend Ed is trying to simplify his life. He sells possessions. He unfriends Facebook friends who have died. He encourages me to do the same. But my possessions insulate me from oblivion. My friends who have died may want to contact me. My cousin may want to contact me, her eyes blurry and sleepy from too much Benadryl. I don’t have a Ouija board, but I have Facebook. I don’t want your advice, Ed. I don’t want your desperation. Smoke billows from your laptop. Cremations are in progress. My father was an electrical engineer. He pioneered drones. Like God himself, he brought death unseen from the sky. He was a bad father, but he’s still my Facebook friend.

—Previously published in streetcake magazine (Issue 46, April 2016); appears here with author’s permission

Bio: Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois