This girl doesn't know that there should have been a mother. This girl, in her flying, in her sweeping of the clouds, the blue, she doesn't know that she was supposed to have existed. She is forever oblivious, a plank to the world's nails, an undefined moment, an action untaken.

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This other woman, the one who should appear in this story, the one who should have been a mother, the one whose eggs came sliding down her insides, dripping into napkins, the color of sunsetting yolk, she doesn't know that she should have birthed this girl, this daughter. She never created, never accepted, kept in a corner of a world where the rain didn't fetch but dripped, in a plague, worrying her face with lines of sadness and time.

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This man, the link between the two, the way a woman makes a daughter, a woman makes a child, a giver and a taker and in the in-between a fragment, flying, mounts the world, this man knows that his daughter, his girl, she fights with her fists on the inside of his body, on his lungs, ceasing his breath. He suffocates. And this man, he knows too about the woman who should have been a mother, who should have accepted his body as a finite gesture to hers, knows that she misplaced his words a thousand times, rejecting his steps on her land, his boots on her soil, the way his hand would have folded into hers, making a blue shadow of a girl.