I was born in a room with no angles.A contagious strain of whytook over my blood.Road, ice, sky—I want sentences made up of knots—hair, ears, snow—I get up, go outside,linger with winterto ensure cold infuses my words here.The English language isa hunting snakeconstricting thought—if I knew eighty languagesaccuracy might bepossible, like whenan old woman standing behinda mother in laborrattles off random namesand the child comes out of the wombwhen she hears herself called.