the rustle of a Sunday bundle of newspapers tucked under my father's arm stop
like water in water —George Bataille
Eggs, transparent and sometimes red-veined as insect wings, might be hidden in bark crevices or a scatter of tawny leaves. The distance between one gestation and the next, a pleat of the dress I wear carelessly, as if I could sew myself another. Practiced, my tendon-reflex where the tunnel narrows its halo into a noose. I trust dexterity as a kind of nourishment, as I believe my own mother couldn’t. To own, beauty is the first lie of it, and brief as incident is gray thistles turning silver in sunrise as if for my eyes alone. I see you surround me, mother, measuring what my exoskeleton withstands. Embellishment is thin. When the eye inside blinks, its bone-house splinters. No eye inside sky but an insect drone can cause the entire horizon, seasonal as hindsight which follows rain. No death will stop measurement spiraling out, a long ribbon of salt I must choose repeatedly to cross.