Your name is Rachael
and I am supposed to sweep you up like a moth
or the baby spiders you think are yours
but they ate their mother, too. Like you will.

You will see yourself in a diagram
the size of dog paws.

You will see yourself on the owl stand:
artificial, do you like it? I am sorry I said no.

You will fracture an oyster
and expect babies to queue out, to call you mom
out of every egg is a memory not your own.

Your name is Rachael but
you are hardly a woman, not a person, or a bug.
A moth is more alive than you
because its wings can blister on light-bulbs.

Your name is Rachael
and so you are of artificial skin and thoughts.