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Faulkner Slept
Here
by Amanda Auchter
I fill my hands with dust, watch
blackbirds bolt from the square
where a woman sings, her voice
full of Gulf Coast storms and tides.
I twirl in the crowds, my feet a blur
of beads & glass,
a shadow pooled in gutters.
Here, I am a lost location,
a geography of sinking swamps and masks.
I pose for a photograph outside Faulkner’s
House, find the ghosts in the walls
always remember; their deep taproots
cling to the bodies
that still move in their graves, a jazz
song that carries on
after a door is closed, a voodoo whisper.
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Glass Bottle
by Vanessa Resler
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