The Book of Books

Father holds up a cloud, a glowing, seething archive, vibrating with code, a book with everything in it, and says beti: from this, you will translate our history.

There is another me in a parallel universe lunging in warrior asana, with the time and discipline to attend to the flitting syntax of clouds, telling me to “go girl.”

There is yet another me in a parallel universe, legs folded in lotus asana, 
balanced precariously on a cloud, immersed in the language of gurus, who spits on my efforts.

And yet another, crushed by market forces, head and torso twisted sideways at an impossible angle, whispering “go girl.”

And still another, contorted in an identical position but in reverse—as if in mirror world, giving me permanent side-eye.

And then another, crouched in an obscene squat, who says the book of books is a pathological contrivance, goading me to embrace my animal life.

And yet another, who has ten arms, one of which holds up the severed head of the father, none of which holds a single book.