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Brush Me In
- The Kent State University Press
- Chapter
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17 B R U s H M E I N I slip on the oily trail, skin my knee on purple, and catch myself at the canvas edge. My boots are covered in morning orchid. Dawn hasn’t dried— I’m following the brush, not yet kicking up enough dust to attract attention here in the new Grand Canyon. Blobbing some orange on my knee to salve it, I start again, slower. Now, my walking sticks pierce the tacky path left, right, pricking the weave so a discerning eye could trace me; but my steps make little noise, only the suck of my boots in umber puddles. Midday, I stop to escape the light that wisps across the gravel and steals the deeper hues. Thirsty, and all around me crusty, I peel a flake of pulpy yellow, a bead of sun dabbled on the cottonwood leaves, and chew until it juices me. Not satisfied, I pare another voluptuous leaf, but in its place a drape of fingers beckons from the tree. stuffing my pockets with yellow and some green, I strip the cottonwood, release the swollen cluster clutched to a fleshy belly. I bathe in layers of bosom, scramble over flushed nipple, red stone. Brush me in and camouflage me succulent. ...