What creatures are these that I have fashioned? Whose face have I placed upon this myna bird, and set to watch above my bed? Whose hands were these with which my cats now rub each other? Whose green eyes, so wet with knowing, did I find rattling in the drains and set unblinking in my fish? Whose voice is it that sings so sweetly beneath the bushes?

…I have no memory of these things. But each is my undeniable handiwork, the craft mine, so strange and so rare though it is, my signature flourishing upon the stitches. My love shines from these aberrations and summons me. I do know it, and yet I do not know it. Have I worked while sleep held me close? When and where and how was the transformation effected? My muscles ache with the work, but I do not know it.

It is a powerful face, this myna face. It is snub-nosed, wide-lipped, wrinkled and friendly. The teeth are strong and square and stained as by coffee. The bird smiles, and speaks the words I taught it from those unrecognizable lips, says, “Once again the war is over. Go talk to the savants.”