A sphinx is a woman made of parts that are not woman: lionheart, wings for skin,scales falling from the spine and city ruins. Bomb-leveled. Perhaps that is the crossroads’ riddle—how to shake your head and smile when you are standing in a crater, towers quivering, then collapsing, pipes gurgling at your feet,bleeding out your reflection. These things do have a way of getting under the skin. Making the blood whir.As if somewhere inside your body you forgot to turn off the stove.Your heartbeat: And yet. And yet. Thick ridges of scar tissue catching and releasing the light like glowing fish—in an abstract sense, you know this is called a wrist,mottled spider: a hand. Broad planes of flesh retreating into a thicket of hair. Somewhere your name.