The girl dreams without hands, her mouth still intact, round with words. Her wrists are forgetful. There ought to be a sign, something in the mind, red and octagon. A noise perhaps, a clear bell but not a hum, please not the constant steady hum. I’d rather have my hands than ears, my eyes than toes. There ought to be a list. Choose what you can live without. Blue. Today blue but what of tomorrow? What of green, what of shadow. Red and octagon. When to stop loving, to say this is enough—I have no hands, how I am to walk? I gave my toes for the color green, my eyes are aching.

Blood and seawater have identical levels of calcium, potassium.

I am the ocean, you do not see.

Here is the list: 206 bones exist in the body; half are in the hands and feet; one for reaching, one for running away. There is no way to leave you. Quiet now, the girl is dreaming. It is silly really to want more, to think that you will wake a handless girl. What will she do, roll over and touch your face?