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PAGE HILL STARZINGER I SAY TO MY UNBORN CHILD Division is swell. You are a part of me even though you split—. A throat joins two mouths. The forest around us, a dense block of dark green occluded tourmaline. Moss creeps up tree trunks like fur. A voice can emerge from one mouth, before it enters the other mouth. The understory smudged with leaf shadow, the ground bruised purple-brown with tree litter. The vessel between us is an opening that collapses, unless we live there. This is a landscape pregnant with the aroma of pine, the remnants of rime, salty liquid marrow of mine. Gnarled cedars, Cryptomeria burn like incense, drop ash as they ember. Its seeds, like sparks, chambered in pinecone scales. I finger the cool fog for a vanishing point. Don't evaporate. Isn't it a matter of perspective? An illusion. Roots buckle the stone, weathering. We converge in other manners? Gravity has no weight here. We prop open the passage with pure phantom energy. Therefore the throat. Yes, the throat. |