![]() ![]() If she was sitting, knotted feet to the stove, if the coal had lasted, Whether she had, this spring, Beatrice did not know. The scar, the woman who had walked beside her then, splitīut determined to live, raising mustard greens to get through There they waited for wheels to rush like the wings of an iron angel,įor the white man at the engine to blow the whistle. ![]() Past the cotton gin, onto the bridge above the railroad tracks. They flared and smoked like the sawmill fires she walked pastĪs a child, in the afternoon at 4 o'clock, she and a dark woman, Years revolved, began to circle Beatrice, a ring of burning eyes. The sky stared down.Īt the center of the world's blue eye, the woman stared back. She furrowed herselfīy hand through the ground. Her legs endedĪt the ankle, old brown cypress knees. Her chair into fragile clumps of new grass. Roxboro Road, she'd seen a woman with no feet wheel On roller skates, pull a string of children, grinning, gaudy-Įyed as merry-go-round horses, brass wheeled In Hollywood, California (she'd been told) women travel ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |