1. In a structure simulating an owl in which are inscribed the eyes of my former husband, etched on shook silver foil, serving as a replica of his eyes in his absence, blue dashed with bits of white as if they were in every moment on the verge of dissolving into a simulacrum of eyes, all of us being simulacra, I have been feeling recently, of ourselves from former moments, indistinguishable (as is the way of simulacra) from what others, even our lovers, our husbands, our dream-sons, our conquerors, our makers, might identify erroneously as ourselves when seen from a distance or even up close if approached quickly enough, in the way that the self can usually be described as two sheets of thin metal folded at least four times and in some complex cases many more (a machine may be required to create this effect) and pinned together by a small bolt, fastened eventually by a nut, the entirety of my history may be included in or at least referred to by a succession of small moving parts.

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(Originally published in XO Orpheus: 50 New Myths)