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• 2 Horse and Cradle for Dorothea Marie She, white woman, fell in love with the black wave of his hair, with the way his voice rose up out of him from the Earth, the way his flirtatious hands fell over the strings of his guitar. She fell, white woman, in love with the points of his eyes, the soft circles they cut through her shoulders, with the way that he came to her bed dressed in savage feathers, her bed, where she climbed upon his copperbrown horse of a back, where she carried the arrow in her heart, she became my mother, the gently, ever gently rocking cradle of my soul. ...

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