It is now. I begin. Scalpel, please.


Not a drop of sweat trickles down my breasts or sides, and as if a dream I feel a smooth-edged razor tenderly slicing in, the heart pitter-patter (is that my heart or the octopus’?) and my bare hands enjoy the sensation of grazing against the bare flesh.


And so the daughter is orphaned again, and the daughter is not a void but a gap between spaces — spaces that correspond to claps of thunders, of melodies, of holy teeth grinding, clapping. She is not orphaned for she has her Father who art in heaven but he does not hear her for he has orphaned many — voices of tongued creatures like claps.


So does she follow? Or as an orphan does she wander within herself, her body emblazoned and orphaned and wandering and what has she become? She cuts into a flesh that is not hers but of the octopus, into a flesh that is of the octopus but also of her, and yet it is not her own flesh that she cuts into. But if it is not hers, why does she cry out in pain?