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Woman

      11  The Real Reason

      12  The Year of the Goldfinches

      13  Notes on the Below

      14  Sundown & All the Damage Done

      15  On a Lamppost Long Ago

      16  Of Roots & Roamers

      17  Killing Methods

      18  Full Gallop

      19  Dream of the Men

      20  A New National Anthem

      21  Cargo

      22  The Contract Says: We’d Like the Conversation to Be Bilingual

      23  It’s Harder

       3.

      1  Against Belonging

      2  Instructions on Not Giving Up

      3  Would You Rather

      4  Maybe I’ll Be Another Kind of Mother

      5  Carrying

      6  What I Didn’t Know Before

      7  Mastering

      8  The Last Thing

      9  Love Poem with Apologies for My Appearance

      10  Sway

      11  Sacred Objects

      12  Sometimes I Think My Body Leaves a Shape in the Air

      13  Cannibal Woman

      14  Wife

      15  From the Ash inside the Bone

      16  Time Is On Fire

      17  After the Fire

      18  Losing

      19  The Last Drop

      20  After His Ex Died

      21  Sparrow, What Did You Say?

        Notes & Acknowledgments

        About the Author

      She had some horses she loved.

      She had some horses she hated.

      These were the same horses.

      JOY HARJO

       1

      A NAME

      When Eve walked among

      the animals and named them—

      nightingale, red-shouldered hawk,

      fiddler crab, fallow deer—

      I wonder if she ever wanted

      them to speak back, looked into

      their wide wonderful eyes and

      whispered, Name me, name me.

      ANCESTORS

      I’ve come here from the rocks, the bone-like chert,

      obsidian, lava rock. I’ve come here from the trees—

      chestnut, bay laurel, toyon, acacia, redwood, cedar,

      one thousand oaks

      that bend with moss and old-man’s beard.

      I was born on a green couch on Carriger Road between

      the vineyards and the horse pasture.

      I don’t remember what I first saw, the brick of light

      that unhinged me from the beginning. I don’t remember

      my brother’s face, my mother, my father.

      Later, I remember leaves, through car windows,

      through bedroom windows, through the classroom window,

      the way they shaded and patterned the ground, all that

      power from roots. Imagine you must survive

      without running? I’ve come from the lacing patterns of leaves,

      I do not know where else I belong.

      HOW MOST OF THE DREAMS GO

      First, it’s a fawn dog, and then

      it’s a baby. I’m helping him

      to swim in a thermal pool,

      the water is black as coffee,

      the cement edges

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