A child of, say, six knows you’re not the shape she’s learned to make by drawing half along a fold, cutting, then opening. Where do you open? Where do you carry your dead? There’s no locket for that—hinged, hanging on a chain that greens your throat. And the dead inside you, don’t you hear them breathing? You must have a hole they can press their gray lips to. If you open— when you open—will we find them folded inside? In what shape? I mean what cut shape is made whole by opening? I mean besides the heart.