1999 Texas Review Poetry Prize Winner Editing Sky I think of your Apache mother rubbing you raw with whitewash & pumice. In trying to bleach herself out of your smooth tailored skin, you became an even redder half-Irish. Even before then, blood had welled around your high cheekbone firmly pressed to the hardwood stock, lightly butted with the single shot from a small bore Twenty-two. Your first buck's last leap...
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