She got lighter as she got heavier. On the phone with well-wishers, her voice was clipped and salutatory. She dreamt of the feathers that had lately been discovered fossilized with their dinosaurs. She saw the no longer gray-brown immensities plumed, colored like old Sunday funnies, and shrunken. Waking, she looked out the window where the traffic was pleistocene. She herself was megafauna. A ground sloth–they were North American. She was North American. She paused often between rooms, admiring both the doorframes’ regularity and her organic refusal of it. When she gave birth, two weeks later than anyone wished, the world erupted and the lava sang blood. She knew her son would scale the darkly glass of Tokyo or Wall Street. His clingy fingers were barbed like a spider’s. The spider that ate the bird.

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