No one explains the stranger whose body you wake in. Your husband’s crime dilates in you like a pupil cupped. Ibu hopes it is the first boy in her family. You’ve stopped hoping it would abandon you. When Ibu’s milk failed to rise, you suckled Mbok’s breast. Now you suckle her proverbs. Wong tua iku kudu iso kaya banyu. Water, yielding, slipping through. Drowning you in a landscape you didn’t shape. Carves volcanoes all the same. Days smear in apricot bile. From their fallen kingdom, his family sends a one-horse carriage. There is a healer who can make your tiny body obey its waxing colonizer. At first light, husband, wife, and unborn child sit across from each other, tossing through verdant blur like dried rice thrown. Burnt earth, heartless and unfamiliar, under pinched sapphire vein. Sapa sing sampeyan nesoni? You follow his eyes to the empty space pressed against your shoulder. One of his magic tricks is contouring floating dust into specters. You don’t need to explain who you angered, or how you know you won’t give him a son. He trails the cobra winding your neck like a clock without the destination of time.