she presses her ear against the wall. something rifts violently; her belly, her throat and brain. oh, and this is the wall that borders the room containing the breastfeeding babies, selenite angel platforms, some cosmic-glinting file folders filled with details and briefs for the missions, a throng of high-functioning husbands that are variant by their body and facial hair, all mountains and strong homes made in them with the clean water around those, vegetables, purpose, sex.
The rift then yawns, and takes the parts of her that are nearest to leave a circumference, but decimated. somewhere in the solar plexus, maybe? no, no it’s the heart. well, okay–the ribs. it’s somewhere in the chamber of bones.
the small sound of someone’s church bells, far to the north, grips her slowly as she strains for each dim toll, but the din–it just does not let go. the hold is terminal she thinks, all while knowing still, that the bells will stop. in moments, even, if moments will.
and so quickly, before it “ends”she asks where are you lodged, old ghost? tell me where: do I look to extract, and then stitch back up, tight?