To her wrist from her shoulder

Five clones get on the bus mid-route. Clones that is if cloning meant that your tight jeans from waist to feet, your hair style, your speech patterns, your mannerisms, your gait, your jacket, your boots, if all of those were exact replicas. If cloning meant that everything that was the least you part of you, everything that wasn't an accident of birth, was a copy. Because genetically, these five clones could have been models for an advert celebrating multiculturalism.

And then I think of my partner. With her tribal tattoo that cascades down her left arm to her wrist from her shoulder. Her leather jacket with duct tape to cover the spot that got burnt. Her crooked teeth that overlap (just like mine). Her hair the result of telling a hair dresser, "do what you want, as long as it's short and has colour." I think of her.