When she falls asleep with chicken bones piled like a pyre on her chest, my brothers and I carry her up the stairs. I hold her head. There are seven of us in total, not enough limbs to go around, so two of my brothers walk alongside us as we carry her swinging body. We love our mother most when she’s weightless, divided between our hands. When each of us holds a separate piece of her and thinks we still have time to trade. I know the stories about the miscarriages before us, First brother knows the ones about the zippered scar on her neck, Second brother knows where the gold is kept, Third
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