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I felt gutshot buffalo herds pitch into black ravines, and the wool blanket that had covered my dreaming lay kicked off alongside the bed I’d climbed into; my white skin trembled in the winter room’s dark air. Wind pecked at my iced-over windows like wild, night chickens who’d heard from the spirit of the one I’d eaten they’d all be be-headed by the end of the year, their beaks ticking like clock strokes to get at me first. That was the night the wild pony I’d tried to capture and break whinnied close by in a cliff-top mist, so unlike the wolf’s frenchhorn-call haunting humans who make up legends to listen for their own souls through — it was saying goodbye, and I began thereafter to dream without jealousies. |
Author notes
published
The Tampa Review
Spring/Summer ‘99 issue
Comments
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Hello Clarice, It's good to see you again.
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