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She feels her parts will remember this new aggregate identity. Ironically, hinting at the author's judgement of the post-modern movement in literary criticism, she imagines Derrida "mumbling about a she monster..."
She recognizes that "all things are called back to their authors,..." and appeals to Mary, the author who began to give her meaning.
The narrator speculates about the joined nature of the "perfect" body as resurrected in some afterlife. She avers the more or less modernist idea that it is as dust (or rather mud) we shall be resurrected, even though the very notion of resurrection is in doubt. Words have a similar fate, as the literary body is reconstituted again and again, in age after age, as perceptions of what truths were being articulated, as well as differences in tastes, reflecting each period in history become prevalent.
Stardust is us. We all "eat embryos", sharing the guilt of destruction in each of our creative acts - even bare existance, for which something is always lost.