Suddenly, an inadequate skin. My mouth always made up of curved suns, their lights buried under moth wings. How they stretch the emptiness of bones. In me the forests grow into a girl. I remember my grandmother moulding the limbs of the dough every Sunday morning in the kitchen. It smelled of the obedience of the first female skull. There the words died in the snaked rivers of her palm. How her hair miraculously untied the earth’s order in front of the mirror. Anything that does not follow a room should be eaten with one hand.