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4 5 Eyas Her hunger—part goblin, part grief for the stink of the nest, its feathers and filth, castings of bone and fur. Then my hand comes out of sky to her blindness, palming her body into its warmth. And her mouth gapes open. There is blood enough to feed her and others wait to be fed, but she is the first I will see go from hand to glove. She is not mine, yet when the pulse in my finger meets the pulse of her skull, I am mother to strangeness. Beneath the sky’s field, my world pivots. ...

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