My father gave me
my first knife
when I was six.
A Mescalero man’s
only half a man
without a knife,
he told me then.
I keep a box
with sixty knives in it
under my bed.
That means
I’m thirty Mescalero men,
I guess,
which seems like
it ought to be enough,
but forty-some odd years later
I still don’t feel
like he would believe
I’m any
of them.
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Dark Matter 
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