We wake from that dreamless land
cocooned for almost 10 years,
tubes down our throats.
Charlie coughs up what feels like a hairball.
Miranda files her nails to sharp points,
poking holes in the plastic wrap packaging.
You tell me that you can’t remember,
that my face is not the woman you signed up for,
that somehow, ten years ago,
the babies were switched at birth.
All the nurses said it could never happened.
But here we stand on Pluto,
holding hands with a stranger,
plucking the ice crystals from between our toes.