you are a brain-spun ideation a woman in her mid-twenties believing in fairies— you are. we shared a womb we shared a room we share a plate daily she meditates, ticking off lists in her diaries— degree boyfriend marriage will she, on her deathbed, tick off dying and I— deserting my bones of marrow atlas grinding against axis my neck bowed with too many askings wailing at pages wet with pleural breath I, the mycoplasma, creep toward her diaries succumbing to her words’ motherly embrace not my mother— an orphan drug i— each month I fall into it— be— a poem no—an essay no—boil into acid erode her pages die of it live from it I, the desiccant— hers, yours, mine with a manic vision for severely myopic eyes— me and her her and my love my love and our mother all of us eating from this guava we planted the tree the storm took last October no doubt it being the fatalist tree