HomePosts Tagged "mississippi poetry" (Page 2)

by N. A’Yara Stein One night on the crunchy sand of Biloxi my mother lay with my father and i became I. The stars, she said, whispered; her husband was a distant silken conspirator. Afterwards, they returned to their sparring and to the delta with its raped cotton plants in reddened soil. They toiled, oiled the machines almost ferverishly as the doomed do. Don't you? Haven't you? Never? I have want of luxury but not fury. Easy promises slipped bee-like from tongues and children's ears grew numb with fear of the way things fall apart and people disappear. N. A’Yara Stein is a Romani-American poet and writer living on a chicory farm and has been nominated twice for the 2010 Pushcart Prize. Born in Memphis, she holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas and has been published in The New Orleans Review, The Birmingham Poetry Review, The Oxford American, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Crossroads: a Journal of Southern Culture, Great Midwestern Quarterly, and Poetry Motel. She currently lives near Chicago with her sons and is looking for a book publisher. 

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The Killer by Gary Bloom The last time I saw him he Was at the Jazz Fest in New Orleans A hot spring day at the Fair Grounds A black piano in a muddy field With Jerry Lee Lewis pounding the keys Like his life depended on it. A bottle of beer was up there On the piano, like a candelabra Between songs he would Take a swig or two Do a little dance And get back to work, The beer a metaphor For hard living and wild women, The piano on its last legs Getting pounded to death. Missed Exit by Gary Bloom After twenty years of driving The same road to the same job I wonder what it would be like To keep going on I10 West, all the way to California. What would it have been like To have lived out there, say San Diego. Would I have Married a Mexican girl? Would I have kids? What would it have Been like if just Once I missed exit 53 And kept going on I10 Through New Orleans, through The Texas hill country And the Arizona desert All the way to the blue Pacific. What would that have been like? Airmen At The Mall by Gary Bloom They walk in pairs One wingman, the other Leading the way. They are fresh out of Keesler And look to be about twelve. In their bus driver blue uniforms They could be headed For the Catholic high school. But here

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