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37 Oxen of the Sun They cut away the meat from the thighs —xii. 360 In a story, the farmer leaves his flock, tromps through the tall grass, nearly braiding it with his black boots. He hears something and walks until he finds it, folds the muddy hooves against his belt, and takes the thing to the shelter: there is water, knives, a flat cold stone rubbed with blood. In another story, a man’s hands move over the air between his legs. I notice the raw slabs of meat marbling his mouth. And still his hunger. He’s not listening to what I’m saying, the bottle empty. He’s smiling. Someone says, Flip, flip. The blood is rising. ...

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