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Many Streams

Many Streams MANY STREAMS Glenda Bailey-Mershon 1. Rising from many streams, muddy bone, storm-shaken bits come to rest in plants and bushes, many-petaled skeletons beside porch steps. Mountains assault us with splendor, enfold us, purple misted arms wrap their girth around our vision, until we can see layer upon layer, green, blue, purple spectrums. Red, brown, black white mingling in the valleys. Dirt, our natural color, universes bloom in our eyes: sky, sun, moon, stars, sights we see as one. Ocean's thrill and pull, whispers behind our backs: This is not your home. Come with me to the hole in the mountains. Across the sea. Back home to Africa. Old women in shawls cover their faces, bent, glinting secret jewels and shells, rattling in our ears. Children in the garden speak in voice of Corn Woman, sacred offerings. Mud calls our name, grabs our ankles, pulls us into slip and slide, tumbling down creeks rising from chasms in Mother Earth. Laurel switches sting our faces, quartz flies against our feet as we roll down slopes of shining rocks, stumble against cedar, come to rest at precipice. All the Earth lies at our feet, in every molecule a wealth of worlds. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

MANY STREAMS Glenda Bailey-Mershon 1. Rising from many streams, muddy bone, storm-shaken bits come to rest in plants and bushes, many-petaled skeletons beside porch steps. Mountains assault us with splendor, enfold us, purple misted arms wrap their girth around our vision, until we can see layer upon layer, green, blue, purple spectrums. Red, brown, black white mingling in the valleys. Dirt, our natural color, universes bloom in our eyes: sky, sun, moon, stars, sights we see as one. Ocean's thrill and pull, whispers behind our backs: This is not your home. Come with me to the hole in the mountains. Across the sea. Back home to Africa. Old women in shawls cover their faces, bent, glinting secret jewels and shells, rattling in our ears. Children in the garden speak in voice of Corn Woman, sacred offerings. Mud calls our name, grabs our ankles, pulls us into slip and slide, tumbling down creeks rising from chasms in Mother Earth. Laurel switches sting our faces, quartz flies against our feet as we roll down slopes of shining rocks, stumble against cedar, come to rest at precipice. All the Earth lies at our feet, in every molecule a wealth of worlds.

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Sep 28, 2008

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