Shelby Stephenson is the author of Slavery and Freedom on Paul's Hill.
Word Boarder The page means drafts of poems must be done. .............Then morning, late, It’s lunchtime, dessert, a sugary bun. .............Too soon for ale. The time shouts always store. Newspapers, books. .............Priorities. He thinks, “I need a library for looks.” .............O my O me. The round clock tocks to nap in room alone. .............The poet feels mute. “The Edge of Night,” TV, sings void of bone. .............His breath seems moot. The Forgoer I did not know him at all, old soldier, except through stories my father told me, how he loved to ride his grandpa’s shoulders, his hands on his head for praises bolder. I want to get as close to actual predicaments and be factual, unplanned, for grieving, I mean, is better than not: how am I to feel debtor amid the talk of toppling monuments when we consider the stone’s dominance at the warrior’s feet, just a small marker to say, as descendant, my life’s darker if I remove the stone with its etched musket. Shall the seventeen slaves in their caskets ever keep the back of the family cemetery luscious with its muffling crumble and cry for ghostly shrouds in the numerals? One of nineteen children, he gave land holdings to neighbors poorer than he; July, the Slave Girl, her future. In Memoriam, Manly Stephenson, Private, Confederate States Army
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Shelby Stephenson
5/28/2020 08:00:37 am
Thank you so much, Maureen,
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