I could knit my own twin out of wire,
a little yarn for hair. Ghost double, mirror’s mirror,
little parasite—I can be so crafty, she could be
a real girl, and I’m Pygmalion, or is it Narcissus
in love with myself? We all have our personal myths.
In mine I will be a lion with a human face, Medieval
allegory. There was no difference then
between a lion and a leopard, between a lion and dragon.
A woman could give birth to rabbits if she wanted to,
the world had an edge—you could sail right up to it
and fall off. I’ll make a boat of all the words
I’ve swallowed, the unnameable growing inside me,
bundle of hair and bone and teeth. I’ve been hiding this
so carefully. If the doctors find it, they will cut it out.