At dawn we would, each of us,
rise from our haunches,
look through the glass
then walk away.
Did she gather her village around
her and sing of the hairless moon face,
the trembling snout,
the ignorant eyes?
Child, i tell you now it was not
the animal blood i was hiding from,
it was the poet in her,
the poet and the terrible stories
she could tell.
Written by Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)
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