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12 Limbo What of those of us who are halfway here, almost of this world, yet shuddering in the antechamber of the pelvis, muscle pushing out against hands that grab from below? And of those hoofed creatures battering themselves against some tree to release what they’ve carried into the yellow home of this day? And the winged seed beneath the shell, offspring who would do anything to be baptized into air? What do we believe happens to those who remain unborn, or, worse yet, live for only minutes? The doe wags her bottom, fawn dangling from the red jelly of her womb, while a coyote watches in the dense laurel. When the heart begins to beat for itself, there’s no promise of salvation. Every fall steelhead swim from open lakes to the streams where they spawn in gravel beds— tails fanning with passion that covers regret. And my own child, unwilling to quit his mother’s body, even as forceps gripped the sides of his head, doctor placing her foot on the foot of the bed, yanking with such force I thought he would tear in two. ...

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