The Woman with No Name
He gives me a once-over then lists them off: skin too high a yellow to be of shadow-folk, eyes none narrow enough to be a moon-worshipper, can’t speak a spit of the Sierran garble, & I sure as hell ain’t pure with forefather blood. The men muster dry snorts with the mares that tow our wagon & deliberate what lands gave forth to each measure of my flesh. They fancy themselves cartographers, as if their squinty gaze alone be an instrument of empire. My tits ain’t no dusk-capped peaks, nor my cunt an exotic grotto. & if this body be a realm, then it be a confederate of borderlands. Here be monsters, boys. They toss me a sun-bleached hipbone & tell me to chew on it: A meal fit for a no-good half-breed. I gnaw my tongue until I’m swallowing iron. We the mongrels exist, & we have no use for your maps.
selection from the speculative epic, Sierra Amnezia