I climb with my fingertips, these easy inclines, to dance on humble mountain tops. Small soft protrusions signaling hard-won gains. This body, now, at last, ripening at the edges, in preparation to be skewered and consumed. These cheekbones, for example, have slightly risen and I see the glowing smile of my mother. That of apple, round and red. The same ones she used to playfully bite when I was little.

Beneath my shirt, it’s warm and dark. Concealed from the public, a couple of mushroom caps have spawned. The darkening of the areola and the budding of a dry fountain. Buried and plowed in a barren land, slightly moist with stagnant waters. I am a valley full of weeds, bursting with life. These are the fruits of my tireless labor and yet who am I to mother?