I am doubling myself. My belly is the project’s incubator, and I imagine the rich syrup of alive displaced by tiny eyelashes, telegraphic in their flutter. My ribs are a curve of frontier, challenged now and then by this new homesteader. He is bold, and I think about miniature organs, learning scripts and transposing themselves to a new dialect I can’t read, though I am their author. How impossible, that I am grafting an existence upon a soul while I go about my day. I’m not doubling myself. I’m doubling God.
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