After remembering I was dis-. Once sewn, strewn. The dear doctor worried terribly that I would be no slave to the murderer he made, that I might choose man. He needn’t have fret. Strung together and electrified, I would not have admired my god. Some gods make our hatred elegant — Victorious. So that it wins in us. I was unmade beneath my god, at which act he could not muster even eternal carnal shame. I was thought better of. He named me refusal. Twice, he rejected his lover/son: once at birth, and once again considering mine. To wake me was (more likely than my assertion of taste or agency) to open a portal, a birth gate, raceflood of the monstrous cloaked in placenta. My god, it must be admitted, lacked a superlative genetic theory. Mendel was in the future and my god stranded on the ice of himself and fiction. If I never was, can I claim a god? Although Limbo was in session, I had stirred as myself in no infant womb; there would be no stillborn baptism nor churchyard burial for my sundering. A century later, my imagined collectivity, my spirit envisioned as beehive, would be captured on the seance of celluloid. But such impressions have no memory. It has to do with where the soul resides. It likes to house itself among disparate parts that come together in beauty. The doctor, once beautiful, lost his soul to his charge. He had nothing left for me to take from him (thieves of life that valueless women are proved by sentimental bauble to be). I have occasion to wonder — when I find myself able to form thoughts regarding form — were my limbs re-harvested from his laboratory floor? I try to imagine what class, what category, what species of god might find herself capable of bending-to-gather, that small, difficult act of kindness and shame.