“everything takes form, even infinity” —Gaston Bachelard, from The Dialectics of Outside and Inside

So I died. Then I filled out a form. It asked how I made do & a living & where did I perform my rotations? “We will inform the living of your current address,” said the form. “Here. Wear this paper gown.” I peered inside. I formed an opinion of my torso, which was as I’d left it— too solid from living large. But I’ve left out a vital detail: I lived in the form of a young woman once, like a formal gown adorned in sequence. I was adored & worn, in a fit of pheromonal forms, in & out & in. Left for dead, I led existence on. Time wore on. Time warred on. A police officer informed my father of his cardiac arrest, warned me I was next. The officer’s speech was so formal I fell into a love. We married. We exchanged speech & touch. Formerly, we’d said we’d never. Then we reformed. If not for the police, I’d have never worn white. If not for the lice, I’d have never left my hair on my father’s grave.