I Say to My Unborn Child

I set a mirror in the forest,
tipped against the conifers 

of cryptomeria as if it were 
a tombstone. I could see 

myself reflected there, even 
as the seeds fell, 

like a haunting. You say you hear
me although I didn’t give you 

a name. You say I expected you 
to arrive, but not in this form. 

A stanza is a little room, a child’s 
room, you say. Tercet, Sestet. 

Couplet. Two lines running beside
each other. I carry you over

the emptiness like a shadow.
Do you blame me?

The ink an imprint of pixels,
of neurons leaping

synapses. The mirror angled
as a type of deflection. I try 

to compress the world into a
slender plane, a surface that can

multiply and expand, like cypress 
branches whorling 

up the peeling flayed trunk. 
Like seed cones opening 

and closing their intricate clasps.