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POETRY Wringing the wind From his warrior's lips — My infant's hunger squalls Picking up the lower tone-call Of that baby over there - dying, His life promise broken Before his eyes could open Upon the bewildered countenance Of his mother — diminutive widow, Aged beyond her twentieth spring, Watching her only son His flesh peeling off ... Everywhere I try to hide I see the pain on her face I hear her angry agony, Her screams stop my sleep My dreams see her slim eyes Mark me with the accomplice's cross — Mark me condemned — If I too continue Standing like a stealthy coward In the hangman's shadow - me too Watching her infant become consumed Like so many faggots upon a fire What manner of mother am I, Standing Waiting for the moment to come ... The Heavy Rhymer's Rooms for Lance Jeffers ODIE HAWKINS His wife pleased us with good talk ... succulent Virginia ham ... dazzling potato salad and then the Heavy Rhymer gave us a feast of his work. From the widely scattered pages that were bound closely together, the Heavy Rhymer had settled the floors of scuttled seas, unearthed whaleseeds from Black men and danced, 149
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Reopened for Editing 2024-02-21 18:15:38
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Reopened for Editing 2024-02-21 19:24:52