What you are looking for isn’t here. Here is the edge of the map; here is where you cut yourself.

Here is a woman whose eye is an egg, anticipating. Here is skin; these veins confused with roads; these scars, histories, and borders contested. Here a woman’s pregnant eye, waiting. Here a man tongue black with birth, dirt—fecund.

Here things coil and wait. Here mist. Here the confusion of dirt and air and water. Here precariously we tilt, but for a moment, we are not falling.