The Porcupine Mother

I ran through a tunnel, and it lead to the color red. When I think of anger like that I return to those train tracks, me, buck-chucking down the lines behind all the fences, running from certain death, or knowing that safety will always be the first priority, the first thing on my mind. Babies, or the way everything has to be rounded off and made to compress to prevent wounds from being inflicted. When I came out the other side it was a porcupine standing there waiting for me. “So you’ve been running from harm,” the porcupine said. “Are you my mother,” I said. “Does a popsicle have two legs?” it said. I couldn’t stand his riddles. I picked up a stick and tried to shoo him off with it. It grabbed the stick out of my hand, inserted it into its eye, and walked backwards through the grass, dragging the stick over the blades. “What are you doing tonight?” It said. “Nothing that I know of,” I said. “Why don’t you pop by around 7? I just got a new game for the Xbox 360,” it said. “Which one is it?” I said. “I’ll tell you when you get here,” it said.

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