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Reclamation
I held fire
and ice in one hand
and witnessed neither sleeping;
walked to the swollen river,
after the rain ended,
and painted myself with mud.
Gored by
the horn of the bull,
I bled on wet moss,
offered my breath to the stones.
You should
have seen me,
mother, on those red hills,
singing as I tore down fences.
Wisdom, like
the wind, came in gusts.
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