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POETRY

damned hearts in a weird
heap of heinous masks,
and held our breath when
a well-dressed sniper
(the coward ran away in a white car!)
presto, relieved his gun
of a bullet or two.

In Memphis there was no sun
and we knew you're praying.
What an angelic hour for you
and us to dance
       around a martyr's corpse!
They say you died for everybody ...
Did you die for the sniper too?
What man . . . what place!
Memphis, your Golgotha,
the most befitting setting
for just another American comedy!
_______________________________________

The Twentieth Spring

CONSTANCE E. BERKLEY

What manner of mother am I,
     Standing
Close in the hangman's shadow - 
Chattering out my chill fears
Aside the man's stockage gate,
     Waiting for the night . . .
Waiting where the safe ones stand,
Watching them who took the helm
Through my confused complicity . . .
     Why do I bear their abuse
     Like a beast of burden
While their violent escapades
Defy every essence of my necessity
To recreate anew child-whisper beauty,
     Not destroy what I live for,
     Why am I waiting, petrified . . .
Watching them - promiscuous merchants

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