STARS ON EARTH

labeled with one of the four intersecting states. Dad’s cowboy boots clicked on the pavement as he marched up on the plaque and straddled the north-flowing line, placing one foot in Arizona, and one in New Mexico. He looked over his shoulder at us and said, “See? I’m in two states at once.”

The possibilities became clear.

Joan — bigger, stronger, faster — was the first to react. “Me next!” She hopped the lines like a jump rope, calling each state by name. Monica ran around the plaque in a circle yelling state names as she went. Lori got down on all fours, placing her hands in Utah and Colorado, her knees in Arizona and New Mexico. Not to be outdone, Joan returned and did a backbend like one of the gymnasts at the Olympics.

When it was my turn, I walked up on the plaque. The sky seemed immense as I reclined directly on the lines and opened my arms in a cross. “I’m between the states,” I said.

I didn’t understand the size of the North American continent. I didn’t understand the size of the country. I had been in few states and even the scope of the Southwest region was beyond my comprehension. I imagined my own world — New Mexico, Yuma, the church — as inordinately large, the most important piece in the big puzzle of earth. Now I added Colorado and Utah and I felt even larger.

Dad came and stood over me. “Right over the crossroads,” he said, smiling.

Estelle Srivijittakar, recontact recontact, 2019, inkjet print, 40 x 30 in.

SHUZO TAKIGUCHI

tr. mary jo bang & yuki tanaka

I

Birds, a thousand birds close their eyes and open their eyes Plovers suffer between trees.

Scarlet birds are assaulting crimson stars injuring my skin My voice will soon snap I go mad I sleep soundly.

Like a butterfly hatched in a bird’s egg I draw a rainbow on the ground In order to hear the pulsing of a star I bury both cheeks in the breasts of my lover.

II

Like a stellar imprisoned inmate in a firmament inside an ear I embedded a demented star in an Elle’s lap.