My first wife was my fist. I pummeled my wife into life and made way for myself. When she was spent I took my foot as my second wife.

With her I ran hard and far and achieved great distances from my beginning. I ate fine foods and my mouth watered, so I took my mouth as my third wife and we lived together for years in our bounty.

But she grew sour and bored, so I took my eyes as my fourth wife because the eyes cannot see the mouth no matter their contortions.

But the eyes, prone to slumber, were unavailable half the time, so I took my heart as my fifth wife out of need for a steady presence. I felt I could not live without her so large was my true love for my fifth wife.

But her steadiness cast my fickle nature in a poor light and I felt I needed a truer match, so I took my lungs as my sixth wife, because, like me, they cast out whatever they took in. But I did not wish to be cast out, so as my seventh wife I took my blood.

This wife I soon found too internal, too terrifyingly inaccessible, so as my eighth I took my skin, which was satisfyingly always ready at hand.

On occasion this wife broke and my seventh wife leaked out and threatened me for a time, staining everything I touched. Then, all of my other former wives colluded to unsettle me—my mouth to spill her contents onto my feet, which would not move me aside; my eyes squeezed tight against any spirit of helpfulness; my first wife wanting to smash herself into everything, threatening to break my current wife further still.

But my eighth wife was unflinching and soon recovered and made me whole again. When inevitably I thought of taking another wife, she seemed to be in evidence everywhere I looked. And so, unable to escape her, I was made real in true love.

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