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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 22

Jenny Bluet

His mother was southern

Jenny was her name. Jenny Bluet.

She had the bloodlines, the gold

acres of scratchy tobacco—

the ground where she played was radiant;

His papi tumbled in from Charleston.

She grew to love him.

He, too, had a name,

a seedbed and a space-heater.

They called him Harley—

Harley Trefoil Bluet.

Altogether so cool.

R. Dickerson