Inside her cupped hands sprouts a small universe.
Inside this universe, another one lays smaller. It is
not a bird that takes root, nor a mouse, rather a
sharp question that presses its lips against moist
skin, where ink notes leak into alphabets, incise
through tiny beads of perspiration. Words churn
this way and that, but they could not know, taking
a turn back, to which their clusters of deformity
would be the weight she would never regain. Instead,
now they lay soft and yielding, and even if they were
to step out off her hands, the air would grab hold of
their whiskers-like-wings and carry them towards
the edge of the unknown. So they will stagnate where
deep whimpering drifts by in the universe, write up
new letters as it has done before when she opens one
hand and closes the other.