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From Traci Brimhall:

August 6, 2018

A year ago, a lion

took our mother as she tended the fire.
This hunger bewilders me. We found half
of her bones and buried her

uneaten heart in a dead cub’s rib cage.
When we returned three days later
we saw no bones, no heart, only tracks

in the sand leading east. Ghost me. Fossil me.
Resurrect me near dawn. We’re always at the mercy
of one menacing grace, one rite, an art

that makes us suffer twice.

Become the Lion

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