How can I sleep when inside me a poppy seed stretches its wings? Brainless, seething, once I stewed in my mother's soup, and now I consider how to tell my mother what is happening to me. Ma, now I am two organisms, now I can't drink booze, now I'm a hovercraft for the underworld, I'm a hitched ride earthside, a wagon wheel wobbling up patched dirt road, a hollow bulb, a rabbit hole. I'm flooded with double the blood. I'm busy building a skeleton. Ma, it's spooky how my whole body fit in your whole body, and now my body builds another. We get so busy in the civilized wearing of raincoats and swatting of flies we forget: I was once curved like macaroni, pithy like a pip, I was once not-here and then I was here, busy contracting UTIs and spitting out baby teeth. The order gets wonky. My life feels collapsed, a quasar and a fast car, ballerina rioting in her jewelry box. Ma, tell me what will happen. Will I be okay? Will I still be me? What does it mean to become a portal, to permit birth and death in the room of my skin?