The story starts with this poem about X in the April 2nd issue of the New York Review of Books:
X, a C.V.
I stand, legs astride, a colossus—
or dancer in fifth position, wide port de bras.
Polymorph strayed into English,
sometimes pronounced like Americans’ z,
in French I’m often silent; in Pirahã the glottal stop;
a fricative in Somali.
Vector, Cartesian axis,
chromosome, bowling-strike. Pirate-map cynosure;
at a letter’s close, a kiss.
I do plebeian duty in tic-tac-toe,
range marble façades. Paired with y, I dodge—
I lend myself to comets of cryptic orbit,
ally with rays that pierce time’s edge.
I’m default sci-fi planets.
In my Roman hours,
I was ten.—Later, the name of millions:
those never granted an alphabet’s power.
Then I read the contributors’ notes in the NYRB.