Name withheld: “We were all pregnant, and all beyond turned on, and it was growing. You were in there. The walls were white. The flood of the birthwater would soon run down the legs of the earth and flood the prism of the eye of the earth, all in Her name, born, and here again. By now there was no turning back regardless of what you believed about the way the words curled on your eyes, or how fast you turned off from them, hid them away. It was no longer about light.”
L. S., age 19: “Just try to breathe. You can’t, can you?”
It was Becoming. Through the phones in all of us god spoke a language that could not be transcribed while night inside itself continued its devolvement. The last body of god rose through a white hazing oil that loved anybody who would exist before it while the morning tore itself apart; it lathered down in clear down blankets wrapped around us. Each vitamin begat an exorcism of the safe word between two doors along the birth hall of our rapidly increasing mass, which by now had bulldozed every inch of breathing air within me. Where the verbs fell from their protection grew a new road to walk along unto some sea. The sea would appear to not be boiling. Inside our future minds the language babies writhed and pupated with babble cockles, deriving the next language to be spoken in the swoon of nothing. Our black house smelled like a bowling alley full of pig heads. The mother bodies were snuffed in dozens and leaked their juice so loud sometimes I could see it coursing down the empty streets where no one soon would be walking and up white mountains to be burned off into the sun, while underneath us the blood grew bluer and then blacker, leaping maggots from where the flesh collected. Often I couldn’t tell the difference now between a new mother and a pickaxe; they mostly passed as water, air, and sleep. And yet the sixty-seventh invocation of the mother looked just like me again. I still didn’t remember any hour there before or after, though, but here where this one had my skull and sacs and all my dismantled grievances recombined. This one wanted all the same things I’d ever wanted, if I remembered rightly, which I didn’t, as held in scar flesh on his love handles and in the hair around his anus hiding what he was. I put a mirror to him and he looked like a simple yellow dot. From the dot there rose a little cake. I ate it with my ear, and then could hear his contribution to god’s most recent face: his own phantom mother, delivering the replication hurt, the want for being somewhere further soon and so then trying and gaining more flesh by rubbing that want out. Our god filled the other organs in with colored pencil. Our god rubbed a grease eraser over folds and made them colonize. The bodies seared, gave smoke, and disappeared; it made us starving. Every lick of nothing was a gift we didn’t need and so consumed that much more quickly and bulged the wordless seam within. I broke the mirror. I ate the mirror. I ate me. I ate the home, and went back out, and came back in.