Caitlin has ghosts on her tongue, seaweed in her bladder and trees in her groin. She is Mary: growing, growing in a Victorian fruit bowl. She is a washing machine. She scrubs her own moon fingers when all the people sleep. Caitlin is a double-harbour. She is the base of Noah’s ark and she doesn’t know Noah. No to Noah and yes to beasts. Dead and alive within the branches of her and her cape and her saucepan lids. Caitlin is in a band. Caitlin is the band. She sings all the instruments of the voices collected in the pit of her soul. The forest is listening and the dead are here, too. No to Noah and yes to Caitlin. She waters her lips and the dead stars shine.