they divided the strings on your arms and legs; the conjoined halves still shared vital organs. Cracks hairlined around the stomach, missed at the middle. They
drew memories from your head, poured them into a vial so small that you watched them spill down the sides. They nailed you up outside and you were bleached by the moon, startled by the sun, given numbers for colours. Silent letters punched from words, and, as the strings were levered, your ears became bigger than your eyes.
They are confined now to the pulp of dreams. Or the snakes that lick a circuit around the heart, which, if you dug and spooned it out, sliced it apart and exposed the rings of years, tears of sap, lipstick marks, your insides would be smoother than you thought. When needles of rain penetrate and the sun dimples the blood, like braille your fingers will find sockets again, reconnect veins and set the wick of your tongue alight. Whoami is now one word, and youcanbewhoeveryouwant – a verbatim of bricks, a solid echo, stacked on your inky skin.
Tell me a story, kid.
The salt in the sugar shaker makes no bones.