Poem:
Den mother is a woman with spools of ribbon in case you lose your own.
By Pamela Craig, 23
Snow dusts the yearning arms of tumbleweeds. In a full moon my mother cut
bit by bit.
Fur, tail, pointed ears she’s sewn to my head.
Knife slice, deveined blood drain.
She skin peeled and then stitched me full,
full of desert blood, full of coyote.
She put a ribbon about my neck. About my neck, a red ribbon blowing as I stood on the rock piles and looked home. She can see her child long running across and far along the desert edge.
Sun warms and loosens the desert floor. In the full moon I wasted
bit by bit.
Claw curl decay
claw decay retract
into thin layer of skin.
Fur shrivel stiff
fur shrivel fall
into ash into earth.
She put a ribbon about my neck. About my neck, a red ribbon blowing as I stood far and looked on. Dust and tears, dust and tears as mud in her eyes.
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