GETTING TO KNOW YOU — All About My New Co-Worker


the new woman that works here is a lurker

i can’t tell you how many times she just stands behind me silently while i’m in headphone zone

and she smirks

and she has her hair tightly parted down the middle

and she has eyes like admiral akbar

but in the front

and pants suits

and weird floppy boobs

and she’s a wuss

and she starts conversations in the middle

or she follows up a conversation with ‘yeah that’s like……..’ but it’s not like. not at all. in fact it’s totally different.

and she gets disappointed when she has no right to be

and she only allows the rovers to take 3 minute breaks when she’s in charge

and she pulls sheets of moss over her head

and the tip of her nose sharply slopes downward

and she paints her face with ochre for the hunt

but she never hunts

and she has a lock of hair stuck to a strip of masking tape in her windbreaker

but it’s got no luck

she keeps the toe bone of an ox somewhere in her womb

but it’s poor contraception

and she’s pretty sure Diamond Dogs is her favorite song, but she’s not sure about any of the pants ever worn during the 70’s

she wears the cloth of an elder but carries no wisdom of the ether

her liver is black and engorged

she keeps elf tears in a jug near her tool shed

but it’ll never lubricate her iron saw

instead of a wood and mud hut, she lives in the half rotted carcass of a whale

a home she shares with carrion birds and vermin

7 feathers from brids outside her territory wreath her head but she’s never once beat an albino bear in arm wrestling

her spear arm is weak, her bow arm is weaker

her feet are famously flat yet she still wears the patch of sneaking

in winter she is too indolent to hunt, she survives by scraping lichen from stones and drinking urine

in fall, near the dirty water, she’s been seen to colelct orange leaves in a hand made basket but never once has she danced with a clay pot perched on her Yambatasu

when the rains come, her hair becomes and dense, ropey mat, where owls and wasps make their home. the owls and wasps have interbred. we call them wowlsps, for they are silent and fearsome.

before the mir browns on the eve of Hunter’s Time, she coats her finery with sacrificial mud as all the middle aged women of the Human Beings do, but it has been whispered around the Story Fire more than once, that often she is seen after the ceremony wearing the shape of a boar.

Heap of Crows, her landlord, told a tale at the local hole about the time he was inspecting the women’s Steam Yert. According to his tale, Heap saw her shadow stretch across the corn and turn all it touched into black water.

once, in the Time Of The Alds, she bore a son — enormous with claws and a thick, brown pelt — that she suckled constantly. When Hroalt The Gruntled slew it on her breast, her milk sprayed out gray and greasy. Where it splattered Hroalt, his skin blistered and fell off.

Overcome by midsummer’s heat, she makes prostrate herself on a hillside, apparently to rest, but soon slumbers so deeply that she will not wake for many weeks, her thick hide hardening in the sun’s heat until her flanks become parts of the hills, her legs, great drumlins where grasses and saplings may grow. In autumn, she will wake and rise, causing a great tectonic distress to all the elk and witch-hazel who have made home among her dales and rills.

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