Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1990 |

Domestic Violence

The night dark as her closet with its big, lonely woolens. In the kitchen a piece of pork is hissing in a black pan, oiled in its own fat, pink and wrinkled as a baby's ass, the air satiny with the oil and humidity of frying. Not how can it be imagined, but how not, how not to be there, under the bare ceiling bulb where shadows swell and slacken, sails in the winds of an argument, of a man with the whole dim tribe of a womanhood. To the left, the parlor, the bulges and ruptures of broken springs and stuffing, the davenport's red velvet like the blush of blood that comes through the crushed ice on the cooler's dead pike. Along the split rail fence, the white chickens, the hens bloom in a line, pale, squat, little ghosts, the far distant door of the Pentecostal church is all light and holler, the uncontrollable pleasure of blessedness dies to the low shiver of the hymns and then the Reverend's big fist pounds the air as though to make someone who is getting up stumble and fall down ag

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Seed Storm

By Jared Carter

The night dark as her closet with its big, lonely woolens. In the kitchen a piece of pork is hissing in a black pan, oiled in its own fat, pink […]

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