I pluck it free from the throes of the bloodbath,
scissor on the perforated lines where its paper-flesh
meets the world. It complains of tinnitus, tooth decay.
I
cut out a belly
button from
a sheet of
baby’s
skin, lick
it,
stick it in place. She says she does not want it. I tell her
that all real girls have belly buttons. She finally agrees.
I
curl her lashes.
She blinks
her eyes for
the first time.
The fingers of her phantom limbs hide inside the drawer where
I keep my socks. They twitch while she paints her nails red.
