In the filmstrip the men follow the women in a dance, because God said that women create things. Men can't bleed so they destroy themselves in other ways. "Your canoe is here," says my intern, so I put on the boots and wade through the mud to the shore while the sky bleats in a voice made of sad colors. A crimson ribbon runs through my heart. I am made of tightly packed deer hearts bound in pine. I give you this letter before I leave you. We are the last real lovers in Indiana and I am good at repeating this in a variety of ways.
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