“Shadows have crept into your face, smudged lines you stubbornly recall as sharp. A trembling truth dawns in the mirror, vacillates, at odds with memory. You shift the angle of the light.
So arrogant, this disdain for the fate of your cells once their cargo of DNA had migrated to your children’s bodies. You were growing their flesh to perfection, stenciling a third eye on their foreheads.”
from Migrations, by Florence Treadwell
















