Wait and ask and look and listen, peeling slowly, where I could
Watching the slow slim building of the soft house stacking forward up into the day
Once the current floor had flown up from me higher, I would not think of it again ever at all
Inside this house I could sleep as long as all I wanted
Which was almost always
My house to me only ever one flat level, as my father’s had been
Inside the night, the air light compiling, the burst and lift, the sloping ground
The night we made the child along the air between us I’d been mostly overwhelmed
The air was crumbed and creamy and I’d been spinning with the scissors
You had to get at it from an angle to make the rooms things again that would not burst
I’d slipped up and racked my forehead three times
My wife was not concerned
She’d been talking to the rathole, where I swear I saw her forcing the best of all our food — the white pecans and goose hair
I swear she had it in for both of us
As I did too
I would tape her hands together for our sleeping but by midnight she’d chewed through
She took to knitting a parachute in case the world slurred sideways or inverted
There were so many things to come, she swore
My eyes by now were mostly swollen lids
I walked in the patterns I most remembered to our bedroom and rolled myself into the moth-made bed
For once I found the way to sleep by simply sleeping
I hid inside me in the world
I’d half cracked a dream of false condition — free fast food, water parks and mega-money — when I felt my wife’s tongue in my cheek
It moved around inside me as if searching, as if after some compartment I had not found, the most mashed part of me stored white inside it, some lick I’d managed to keep mine
Her tongue touched my own tongue and made me speak a language I’d never heard
Those old tongues in me all full of other people
My wife there all above me in no light
We had been together for exactly fourteen days through all the banging
She ate my breath and held my hands
She let her tongue continue slit so far down deep into my throat I could feel it coming out the far end
I could feel it squeegee through my balls, the halls of ugly others of me all inside them, also speaking
Knowing all of our old names
It folded through me like a waking
Where I would go to be alone
Very soon our skins had changed
I heard the sound of metal drumming
The walls inside my sleep were slurred and pocked with goiters
There was a swan, a goose, a chicken — all of them pecking at my head from the inside — while on the out my wife would shriek and she was in me and I was in her — so
Then was someone other also too
My wife swelled up only from one point, her private center, while the rest of her curled dry
This was all within a matter of an hour
Her front became a thing against which I could lean
Then it became more than that
I could forget that I was there, though when I did this my wife would try to drink my body
My blood and such shit
The other of us wanted mass
Each inch had its own inches to derive and to comply to
My wife gave it all the rest that we had saved
She ate the ash that shook off from the ceiling
She made me go out into the yard and dig up a certain kind of nit — a thin translucent nit no bigger than an idea
The nit had a massive nest of eggs just like it, in its image, as were we now
My wife gave each one a little pet name before she slurped them through her sternum to the child
The nits replicated and came back out of her through where her holes were
As had I once been created, as had you
There were webs or nests all through the bedroom and beyond
This was all within a matter of an hour
One then another
My wife tried to hug me to her chest
I said Ouch a little, and she echoed it back at me
There were new lines in her eyelids and what beneath them
She was already unfolding
I felt my ribcage folding inward as the form inside her stomach kicked me in my own
She lashed and gnashed and shrieked up steam shaped like my face
I kept the door between us mostly always after
I slept with knives and mirrors and a bell
I heard her in the old rooms brimming over
I heard the child inside her coming out
There was a smell and some kind of gonging
I couldn’t see, I closed my eyes
My body moved me through the house
I felt my each inch spreading out
There was more of me than I could need in any instant
There were more years then
There was the new edge of the night
Inside the house Person 2030 sat silent with his eyes closed scrawling drawings of himself. In each picture he’d made his gut appear enormous, like his mother’s, filling up most any page — another person lodged inside him, like his mother. In some pictures the person was hair-covered, while in others it had no openings.
The child had made hundreds of copies of himself. Each one he named with longer numbers that weren’t numbers. The paper filled the room. It caked around his face and made it hard to breathe. There was so much paper. The pages that appeared blank were fat with certain words where the child’s sweat had kissed against it. His arms were throbbing. He could not stop drawing. His stomach in the pictures kept on growing and in his real stomach something moved — an odd shape shaking through his inseams, against his blood — he felt it stretch up along his body to his finger.
He bit his finger, sucked the foam. Among the mottled knots of flesh and tissue, there were a set of keys, a keyboard organ made of organ. The keys each had a different word imprinted on them. Each of the keys, when played, made the same sound. The child touched notes and felt his fingers burning. He felt the notes inside his head. For each note there were endless others at the same time in it bending what the note had meant to mean, and yet once played there was no way to unplay it.
Outside his shape, he heard the other sound, the shrieking of the tone, again beginning—a tone, he realized, made of every sound he’d heard or uttered here so far and so too would utter then in years to come; these words that made him, in the book, and all the books read or dreamt of as they passed the words into the book of him in its creation. He’d heard the tone many times before but never in a room here by himself. It struck the air so loud it shook his body to its strands — he could see straight through his skin — his skin now newly rashed in bumps that matched the pattern found on each of the bodies of him that he’d drawn, and too the bodies in the bodies growing, written in their 2D lard. He moved through the room’s light toward the sound. At first it seemed to come from one direction then it spread out into spirals. In the spirals the child moved. He wobbled through the kitchen to the hallway where down the hall he saw the door.