I have an ear for each parent I believe in and a hand for each god I don’t.  I have yet to make a body that doesn’t become bread.  in the process of comprehending the smallness of my twin’s brain, I lost the only friend I could talk to in code.  my son won’t use a spoon as he fears it distracts his food.  the fork is next and the knife, safe.  my daughter is a drunk and also a soup that gives the same nightmare to the mouths of my angel.