Let’s say that, as your mother’s story goes, you were born hungering. Let’s say you came into this world gooey-hot with blood and slick and before the howling inside could make its way up the ladder of your throat, to find grounding in your tongue, you conjured a boulder to block the chasm of your lips. To close out the vulnerable shadow of light. Let’s say your mother’s myths are truth, that your first act in this life was to shut up and look around: quiet, quizzical-eyed.