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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,

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Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-21 18:15:38 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-21 19:24:52