You might call us
cyborgs but
our augmentation
is mostly

flesh, double
eyelids for the desert
dust, lizard
skin for moisture

harvests. In
your stories
we are the knife
sharpeners, the children

eaters, monsters
who pluck our own dead
for organs, leave
our burial grounds

empty egg
shells. We chose
evolution in our own
timeline. Editing

our bodies
with our siblings’
bodies, opening
ourselves sieved

throats to breathe
new air.