a dog is barking his opinion. he is my ex-husband, waking neighbors. something rustles leaves in the backyard, tips over a stack of empty clay pots. the indian is in my head, feeling his way because there is no moon; there are no stars. I open the door and the opossum screams, frozen in guilt. light turns his black eyes to gold. his teeth, his pink tongue are fear and they writhe, they gnash. neither one of us moves. we feign, our dead tails curling like parasitic worms.

the indian stands with his feet flat on the ground.


(revised version) — issue 52 — right hand pointing



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