I, too, am ancestral. Monstrous. Snails for eyes, good for lord-knows-what. You are just so very quiet, says the person I’ve been speaking to. Oh apocalypse in her clean blue dress. Oh rusted light. Surely I wished to be as I am, but I never wished for this. My mother carried pails of waste to pack under fruit trees, between rows of tomato and corn. Her own mother wrapped newborn goats in table linen. Dear myth-maker, dear field of bees: god’s name is thief. We have matched her bone for bone.