When two organisms are paired the larger of the two will typically become the host. One organism will develop multiple pairs of antennae and, in the process, eliminate the need for a circulatory system. The other will cling to their individualism through the deployment of a broader abdomen and sharp, claw-like appendages.
The larger of these two organisms holds one of these appendages up to the light and says, “It looks real to me.”
Then they let go, so that it limply dangles by their side.
My own physical form is emblematic of something else. There’s a gently sweeping curve to my jaw, the casing of which has been enlarged slightly in order to accommodate an extra row of teeth.
A few other impressions:
1: Molting is a popular literary device. The writer sheds their language in order to broaden their investigations. Invertebrates and tiny corals require fresh supplies of oxygen and water in order to survive. The same could be said for the opaque and deadly creatures craving a linguistic niche.
2: You follow me into the darkest recesses of the ocean. Here, we find our limbs are most useful if deployed like fans. Our pupils have tripled in size. Large rivers of silty gray sediment appear to flow beneath us.
3: Annual rainfall levels have fluctuated to the point where the deserts are now displaying a brazen insubordination to the sun. There is a cave, of course—at the back of which are a number of carefully arranged items.
4: The bones of dead ancestors. A few shiny trinkets purchased from a two-dollar shop. Some paintings of indeterminate origin.
5: Three poets arrive in the cave and begin setting up their microphones and podiums. The first poet appears to lack adequate nutrition and grooming. He says, “The poet should avoid the present tense at all costs.” He has never been paired to another yet still siphons off nutrients and knowledge from all of those around him. No wonder he inhabits water-filled recesses and other terrestrial habitats. The second poet grew up on a commune and believes that state policies should not override evolutionary tendencies. Her own writings feature creepy renditions of people whose benthic forms and neurotic dependence on image and meaning is unbecoming. There is something frightening in these mangled and integrated creatures. Some of the people have Medusa-like characteristics while others lack any kind of skeletal structure whatsoever. There is considerable variation between the versions of those she claims to understand the most clearly and those she doesn’t understand at all. “Writing,” she says, “is nothing more than a long voyage over very rough seas.” The third poet, despite appearances which might suggest otherwise, has persevered for thousands of years. Their language is supplemented with fastidiously recorded elements. All of their poems contain three distinct segments—one each for the past, present, and future. This poet wears a tee-shirt which says, F is for the ten millionth time and claims that thirst is a requirement which can be unlearned.
6: I reconsider the jaw again; these innumerable teeth and how the entire system lacks gills.
7: An asterisk, a stream bed, the ability to directly absorb oxygen into our bodies.
8: Perhaps we’ve misheard. Perhaps our facility with language will lead to our downfall. Perhaps the public lauding of our own personas is parasitic and causes continuous displacement. Perhaps we are best considered collectively. If not paired, then linked. If not floating, then receding each spring.
9: Sometime later you circle back. Your appearance jogs my memory, but I can’t recall which organism was supposed to be which anymore. Maybe we each had something to offer? You emerge from the darkness—approaching from below and marking each one of us individually.
