Now I can’t get past the mezzanine, never know who’s waiting for me downstairs by the revolving door covered in shields or crosses like the blood drive. Will this be the year they finally succeed in harvesting these last self-organs, I ask, as they tell me it’s for a cause? As if I’m not the swollen one smiling on their pamphlets. Don’t bother with this logic of sameness as you eye me like the platter at Labor Lunch. I used to envy the trees wearing mists as veils, modest trunks exploding into thousands of muscle-bound legs soon as they reach the soil. Now even trees seem docile and susceptible. So too for the quasi goddesses with half-lives shorter than a hair’s. When we still had hair and partners my partner shaving said hair said we should be made of light. While every morning I wake hoping to uncover some slab of my body hollowed out and encased in steel. Everyone’s entitled to her own magic bullet theory of self. There’s the get-to-know-you game we play no longer for we lost get-to and know-you. If you had to press further into the future in what county what province would you elect what version of what self?

A half-frozen field late January. Tall, spare, lone turbine thrashing by the abandoned interstate.

I play my game.

I await the next campaign.