A crack in the Starbucks restroom mirror divides our faces. We’re all divided here, with blood running down our hands. In the place we ran from, there were no mirrors. We couldn’t see ourselves, so we didn’t know who we were. Dr. Perseus kept telling us we’re Berkeley. “Who’s Berkeley,” we’d ask. “You’re Berkeley,” he’d say, and then once he’d strapped us down, he’d pull down our pants and touch us with those hands in those white gloves. Then he’d put us to sleep with a needle.

Available to purchase on Amazon: Black Sheep