ideation on the night the sea urchins came i was feeling like a helmet of mice. there were potential ladders all over my body & the rain came through the walls like fingers through sand. they crowded the windows & the door-- purple & prickled & smelling of the fresh sea. no one knows my terrors like i do. there is a pocket knife who floats in the closet. i once tried to throw my heart off a roof but it returned, like everything does as a sea urchin. there was nothing to do but to tend them. i filled the tub with salt water & let them all congregate. they sang with voices made of thread. hymns from beneath the waves. i moved them around to make room. laid down with them & imagined my body equally round & sharp. they promised not to be a burden which is what all parts of my body have promised & lied to me about. the ocean drifted in & out of sleep. called me a "daughter" instead of a "son" & i told her it no longer mattered. i was going to be made of ice soon anyway. how do you teach yourself to want your legs? i ask the urchins who convene & agree wanting is a process, not a bolt of lightning. still, i want to be struck so loudly i singe. gleeful & burning. a fire current. a future palm's worth of ash. the urchins tucked me into bed before departing. i asked when they could come back but they were already gone--their ears like buoys. a wave swallows me & i wake up in the bathtub of salt water sobbing like a glass bottle.