Julia, she, whose mother was a horse or read about and thought that it was true for her too had two mothers, she, Jules, and thought for in loving me to find three, was I or to be or having been that for her in just pretending really was. It was thorough, what I wanted to do to her was thorough, or I mean the planning of it was

and touched beneath her skin stretched down from a point to the bit of baby hair behind the earlobe, tugged taught where the ribs graduate upwards the revealed too-tight thatching of sinew muscle; the sinew grew and flexed when her and my hands grasped and pulled ours clenched together in her hair so long as to fall tickling to my chest, and she balanced upon a columnal arm protruding from the hair on my sternum seeming at times when she screwed on top of me like a fish bent dead on a spear.

and she her mother being third was born from artificial lagoon, her lasso-eyed and new hands to lines pushing aim towards irons, pushing fruitless tack. tack!

that the fish would have been born too as a mother made more sense to her in reading than the horse but then again the fish that was Vardaman’s mother didn’t have the eyes or nobody ever saw him have them so whose mother anyway?