Impossible

The yolk and white returned to the un-
damaged chamber. Spacecraft launched

beyond escape velocity, crossing
the Kármán line. That a man in a pressure

suit planted his feet and a flag on the moon
while I was learning two-digit addition

and subtraction at the kitchen counter.
Years later, that I birthed not one but three 

daughters; and each time the threads 
suturing the episiotomies close, melted 

back into my body (self-healing, the doctor 
called it). That I sat in a high-ceilinged room 

and nearly signed a document laid on two
sheets of carbon paper, saying it was my fault 

my marriage did not prosper—this being 
the only way I was told I could apply for 

annulment. In an earthquake, that the firewall 
cracked, roof to foundation; and the dining 

cabinet slid from one wall to the other but 
not a single glass shattered. Every year,

storms flooded poor, makeshift houses 
around the quarry, but every year, they were 

rebuilt. And I remarried, though I swore I'd 
never do so again; and bore another daughter 

when I was 40. That I am still alive somehow,
after a lifetime of breaking and mending.