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 <p><span class="line">I saw two Eskimo girls playing a game</span><span class="line">blowing on each other’s’ vocal cords to make music</span><span class="line">on the tundra. I thought about how</span><span class="line">once we played the same game</span><span class="line">and the sounds blowing over the cords of our throats</span><span class="line">was the same as a wind over frozen prairie.</span><span class="line">We are the Eskimo girls who played</span><span class="line">the game that night to keep ourselves warm.</span><span class="line">I run my hands over <a href="and.html">my daughter</a>’s</span><span class="line">voicebox as she hums a song</span><span class="line">about a seal and about killing the seal and about</span><span class="line">skinning it and rendering the blubber</span><span class="line">into clear oil to light lamps.</span><span class="line">I remember you are my lamp. She remembers</span><span class="line">you although you left before she arrived.</span><span class="line">I can never tell her about you.</span><span class="line">I will never be able to express that taste of your oil</span><span class="line">as we <a href="spittle.html">pushed our throats together</a>.</span><span class="line">I will never be able to say how</span><span class="line">we share this blemish like conjoined twins.</span><span class="line">I will fail you always to remember you.</span></p>
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