INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Alan Britt
Lisa Schmidt
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GEORGIA Memories are like pieces of cotton Clinging to a twig. Aggravated images that will move In a carbon sky, above the Capitol Strips of blood stripes and bruise blue surround stars As turpentine bathed coffins of former slaves Lay in graves under summer sod They saw the great day. Their masks I wear; their many faces Split apart into red, white, and black persons Fertile land speaks of their indefatigable dreams Under a one eyed moon--a bad sign That follows from afar and will not leave me alone THE GOSPEL OF GRASS [scene 1] Milledgeville, Georgia early 1860s Mr. Robinson. Hide your words under the bed of your tongue. She was your mother and my property--son. You're eight and too old for coddling. Work hard for me now and upon my death, I will set you free and give you forty acres and a mule. The Son. I could pass for a younger you. What good is grass when I walk down the street. I am an ass tied to a piece of lumber, waiting in line to eat like all the other coloreds. [Walking away from the auction block, in the distance, he thought he heard someone call his name. It was his mother's last cry, and in his memory it remained.] Serena M. Wilcox, Roswell, Georgia
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