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.