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7 The squaTTInG sun 6:38, flying east, I witness birth, pushing out of the blushing vaginal rim like some wide cherry-dropped child. All the colors that make red have come to the only straight line on the earth. Ghostly, I blink, my eyes tweak her nipples, she releases and the head does not wait for my awe. I thought I knew what red looked like. Believed I had seen this daily drama before; the earth in morning-mother motion, the first bowl of earth-breath sipped, but never had I been asked inside the sun’s womb so deep. What I see has so much to do with the permission to look. My egg-white eyes labor to midwife this moment out all the way. The baby day pushes clean, a quarter rim of cherry-spilled earth 8 lands in a head-back wail inside my ladling pupils, the first rising brightness, its long equatorial head bursts, then crests; new life passed on to a pan of waiting salted water. ...

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