What do you see in this inkblot here?   A womb. And here? 
    A womb, bleeding.        And here?     A butterflied womb.
And here?  A portrait. Of whom?    My husband.       And here?
Nothing, really. An empty perfume bottle.          What about here? My house
and my husband’s house and the bridge in between, its hoar of padlocks. 
   And That’s me. Alejandro is kissing my neck. We’re on the bus, 
shuddering along the pedestrian-pearled road. I am eighteen and feel something
profound in my looking out the window at the children and the trees and the
troubled dust and the electric trolley car rushing towards me and ‘the bus bursts into
a thousand pieces,’ as Alejandro will soon recount to a small crowd, and a handrail
forces itself all the way through me, angled like a seatbelt. I picture pouring the silt of
my bones into each of the lovers I will have in my lifetime._
         DIEGO                         DIEGO                           DIEGO
By some miracle, all my clothes have been stripped off me. A decorator sitting behind
me was holding a cannister of glitter which has ruptured all over my body.  Can
you see me?   What do you see?   An iridescent seahorse.   A woman
dressed only in blood and stars.         One 
fragment amongst a thousand.