It wasn’t abstract but actual fact of morning gray clouds flattened above everything. I was a song that nobody listened to anymore but a faint curl of smoke remembered my name. I wanted somewhere for my anger to go but it blew back in my face, seeds in a wind, a caul. It had become more coherent than I expected, a set of preferences that stick like a nametag stitched to my chest. I wanted to live as intensely as possible at the edge of becoming, refuse to say what I was or who I had been. I drowned so many women in the lake. Their bones kept washing up on shore and I assembled them into new animals. This was called the production of knowledge. I was called mother, or language.