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.