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42 Climbing Bare Rock [First Daughter] You and I, child, were roped from the day the coyote stole the first humans from the sea. Our twin souls, harnessed. My own mother told me I’d never be brave enough to bear a son but look at me. If I wear a mask I can bear you on my back. My mask shows the world what’s within me: fury at the darkening earth; twin ears saluting in joy. Teeth like sharp wire shining. Believe me dear one: I can be both wild and bent like this. I can wait for the day when you run from me in terror. ...


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