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COYOTE

I spell out the word pullet with small wooden blocks. It’s a good feeling, something like standing on a chair, the chair skittering across a waxed floor, a feeling so good you have to yell. It’s the yell I make when I see a clean bowl pushed out a chute and into the light that floods the wood pile. To calm down, I circle the tree in the yard until I can’t stand up. I sat in a puddle today before I came inside. You’ll be able to tell by the wet spot on my ass. Submerged in water, I was bluer than I was in the air. I was strong over the orchards, in the red dress I now wear as a shirt. I was singing a song so loud from the back of my throat, from the curls under my crown and everyone thought I was not a body but rather a shape made of singing ants, all their voices drowning me out. And I knew what they thought was right. With the blocks before me, I am so proud I could catch a pigeon with my left hand and a pheasant with my right. Have you heard that expression, have you heard me talk out of the side of my face. When I start, I always say: white dog, grey dog, glass of water left to fizz. It’s a cycle, something I’m really hitched to. It’s my talent, that’s what everyone tells me. I think

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Profile for cusoa

2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

2017 Word for Work Workshop ebook  

Profile for cusoa