GOLDACRE

as if      you were ever wide-eyed enough to believe in urban legends

as if      these plot elements weren't the stalest of clichés: the secret lab, the anaerobic

chamber, the gloved hand ex machina, the chemical-infused fog

as if      every origin story didn't center on the same sweet myth of a lost wholeness

as if      such longing would seem more palatable if packaged as nostalgia

as if      there had once been a moment of unity, smoothly numinous, pellucid

as if      inner and outer were merely phases of the same substance

as if      this whiteness had been your original condition

as if      it hadn't been what was piped into you, what suffused each vacant cell, each airhole, each pore

as if      you had started out skinless, shameless, blameless, creamy

as if      whipped, passive

as if      extruded, quivering with volatility in a metal mold

as if      a catalyzing vapor triggered a latent reaction

as if      your flesh foamed up, a hydrogenated emulsion consisting mostly of trapped air

as if      though sponge-like, you could remain shelf-stable for decades, part embalming fluid, part rocket fuel, part glue

as if      you had been named twin, a word for likeness; or wink, a word for joke; or ink, a word for stain; or key, a word for answer

as if      your skin oxidized to its present burnished hue, golden

as if      homemade