In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Alone on the street, as Vicksburg fell, the lady stood, her white arms cold, smelling of gunmetal and spoiled cotton pods. A door

slammed, its screen dissolved and inside her, flies licked horses, goats cleared beds while hogs cuddled

in the parlor wedding cove. Tell how she survived, now on the tour, barefoot and entered, pink in her windows

hanging like twice chewed bubble gum, her girls hired and smiling at the door. Open the ivory windows,

let her dead widows crawl out. Call pilgrims into peacock halls and show the inside crust of a propped up heart. Inside,

for five bucks an hour, see it— her slop jars dipped in cologne, nine-foot doors still holding their mahogany burl while

all Africa is pressed into the fireplace, handprints and chains baked into bricks.

R. Dwaine Rieves

R. Dwaine Rieves is a public health physician in Washington, DC. His poetry has appeared in Timber Creek Review, Baltimore Review, Potomac Review, and Parnassus.

...

Additional Information

ISSN
1080-6512
Print ISSN
0161-2492
Pages
p. 75
Launched on MUSE
1999-01-01
Open Access
No
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