"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."   POETRYrepairs v07.09:101
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VALERIE MACEWAN
Beaufort County Fair			

Caroline at eight still rides kiddie rides and smiles.
Big black women with huge butts
wave to their children as they sail by.
Laughing faces, taken in by the smells and the sounds, and the lights.
Forgetting to see the dirt and the tattoos, looking only at stuffed 
dogs and unicorns, sawdust-filled bears and cotton candy.

Fat men in blue work shirts
with their name sewn above the pocket
grip Marlboro cigarettes in toothless grins, their stomachs shaking 
with laughter as the kiddie cars pass around again.
Almost laughter, not quite sin.
Women in new sandals, tight skirts,
and ratted yellow hair stand by the livestock pavilion, curse their 
children, and try to light matches in the wind.

Over to the livestock pavilion
puppies, bunnies, kitties, name it, they're all free.
Theres a woman in a wheelchair
And she yells at her costumed dog to stay.
The dogs dressed like Mrs. Drysdale.
 Obedience is hard to photograph
in black and white, and the newspaper man 
wanders back towards the midway.

The carnival smells of unwashed socks.
And Caroline tells me ?Look, look now...There's two, I saw all both of 
them. and I stare as the midway hocks up its riders and they spew 
from pandemonium back into the night.


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"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."   poetryREpairs v07.09:101
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SUZANNE SCARFONE
Unearthed			
  
Just before I became
anonymous
life poured through me
like light
I saw myself
everywhere
I looked
and named things
to prove it
breathing
and singing
and moving
every step I took
turned up small
wounded flowers
wild violets
crinkled gentians
and myrtle
walking
walking
in these gardens of hope
there were birds and
trees and
paint and
clouds romping
between heaven
and shame
and the sacred
indigo wind
and dreams full
of myth and
noise and
lust
and the memory
of the sun on my knees
the world was covered with
fragrant parts
 of me
a tumble of flesh
and flowers
and earth
now
somehow
the blue violence of
things has
turned into this one
sightless
milky mist
everywhere painful and
colorless
and single
I wither and wane
and cough in the cold
my head aches
trying to remember things
like the lilies in the ground
of the barn
waiting to be
unearthed
and the sound of
my name


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KELLY WHITE
Hick			

Down in West Virginia you drink ice tea
from a mason jar. You say your grandmother 
was Robert. E. Lee. Clean-shaven, but 
you could feel that bristle when her lilac 
breath kissed your cherry cheek, scritchedy-
scritch. Snip snip. (That's her scissors 
on your golden curls.) You used to carry
your little tin bucket to the Last Chance
School. It ain't standing nomore. They done 
tore it down. Kerplunk. You musta learned 
good 'cause you wore out the schoolhouse. 
Pretty little Shack of Higher Knowledge. 
Pretty little Mansion of the Wise. Guys. Some
times it was a dancehall (least in the outhouse
for the flies.) You eat fried chicken with 
your fingers and you never wash your hands. 
Poor bunny's eating lettuce. She flips her tail
up when she runs. Tomorrow you might 
to call her. She'll be out of earshot then.
Your tinsel teapot screams. You must remember 
that's her voice. Harambe! That kettle's running. 
It's gonna steam up your ice box.

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