With gamma-knives bisect me so now I are two. And I can name my selves: I and It. I can pick my selves out of a police lineup. My selves already broken before the questioning begins. My selves confessing and unable to lie with my new two mouths. Saying: I are guilty. Both weeping and saying: Us is guilty. But one mouth pinker, prettier with lip gloss. The uglier, sucking a cigarillo, blows smoke out. Both weeping. Both saying: We was never sorrier. Both sucking air in and both exhaling. But the pretty one blows light. Supernally shimmering. Makes everyone weep who works there, even the people in charge. All the police weeping and together saying we also is alone.

Rachel Levy is currently working toward an MFA in Fiction at the University of Colorado at Boulder. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ghost Ocean Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Drunken Boat.