Carolina Quarterly 61.1

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P O E T RY

| F I C T I O N | E S S AY S | R E V I E W S

WINTER /SPRING 2011 ISSUE | VOL. 61, NO. 1

O B D U R AT E E F F E RV E S C E N C E S I N C E 1 9 4 8


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CONTENTS WINTER /SPRING 2011 | VOL. 61, NO. 1

P O E T RY 10

DAVID CREWS | These Stories

32

JOAN I SIEGEL | Au Pair

33

CHARLIE CLARK | Scarred on Sleeve

36

WILMER MILLS | Contingo

Telos Tangere 66

ZACHARY MEDLIN | Four AM Joke

68

JENNIFER STOCKDALE | Matt and Lucy

I Love You So Much 93

CHARLES MANIS | No Telling

94

NANCY CAROL MOODY | When They Ask About My Face

Sextant 107

KEITH DUNLAP | In Memoriam

Melting Faster Mr. Malkewiscz Among the Pharaohs 110

MICHAEL MORICAL | The Cure

121

ROBERT BENSE | History as a Flower

FICTION 7

NATE BROWN | The Have Nots

16

PAMELA DIFRANCESCO | The Chuck Berry Tape Massacre

52

GEORGE SINGLETON | Fresh Meat on Wheels

77

MATTHEW HAMITY | Regarding Donor #5873 and Him or Her

111

VALERIE SAYERS | The Heat


NON-FICTION 12

DEANNA BENJAMIN | Flourescence

34

ZACKARY VERNON | Walking Down Furrows,

Talking Down Lines 70

THOMAS HORAN | Eat the Cake

76

JANIS BUTLER HOLM | Ripple Effect

INTERVIEW 101

SYBIL KEIN | You Gotta Speak American Now

REVIEWS 96

JONATHAN PATTISHALL | How to Write a Sentence FË +½8 bË µ}

A RT 6

ANTHONY EASTON | Jesus

13

ALIETTE | Nuit

44

AMANDA MULLEE | Texas is the Reason

96

ALIETTE | Foret

124

Contributors


ANTHONY EASTON

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| Jesus


N AT E B ROW N

The Have Nots Â? ½}b Â?€O½Ă‚²bÂľV ˑ ‡‘‘†bY Y€nnb²bÂ?½ Â?bĂŠ½ ½Â‘ ˑ² on½} u²8Yb O‡8¾¾¢ The thick collar of your department store undershirt ringed your neck under the button-down and tie, and your hair, while trimmed and clean, was divided by the stark, straight part that your grandmother cut into your shower-wet hair each morning with her hard comb. St. Elizabeth’s was a rich school but you were not rich, and while your uniform was not the best or newest, your grandmother paid to have your blazer cleaned and she ironed your shirt collars into starched points, the cuffs into presentable cylinders. These were your grandmother’s efforts that kept you in the soft, unnoticed middle of the student body. You were neither tall nor short. You were on the skinny side, but you weren’t small. Your eyes were brown, but not remarkably light or dark. That your grandmother combed your hair the only way she knew—the same way she had once combed your father’s hair—was a transgression of small order. 5‘ Éb²b 8É8²b ‘n 8 F‘½½Â‘ŠV É}b²b +}bbÂ?8 +8‡bÂľ 8Â?Y (8½²Â€O† +O‘bee’s wrinkled uniforms and inexact but detectable discomfort hung over them like an unpleasant odor, and you were afraid of it. 5‘ Éb²b 8‡¾‘ 8É8²b ‘n 8 ½Â‘Â?V 8Â?Y ‘²²8€Â?b b²² q‘8½bY ½}b²b 8Â?8½}b½Â€O8‡‡ËV Fb8Ă‚½Â€n‡‡Ë¢ (b²}8Â?Âľ FbO8Ă‚Âľb Âľ}b ÂľbbŠbY Â?‘½ ½Â‘ O8²b n‘² others, not even her friends, people seemed to want her nearer, wanted to make her care by touching her somehow, talking to her, asking her questions, even suffering her frequent reproaches. You imagine everyone felt this way about Lorraine, that everybody was her willing victim because even if she hadn’t liked what she’d seen in looking at you, the n8O½ ²bŠ8€Â?bY ½}8½ Âľ}bÂŻY ‡‘‘†bY¢ Ă?Â?Y Â?b‘Â?‡b É8Â?½bY Š‘²bV €Â?ĂˆÂ€½Â€Â?u }b² as they did to summer homes and weekends at the beach. You imagined that everyone bit the inside of their cheeks as they pictured themselves reaching over to pet the delicate blonde hairs on her arm. Your cheeks were raw from the longing.

N ATE B ROW N

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ALIETTE

| Nuit—Panel 1 13


ALIETTE

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| Nuit—Panel 2

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J OA N I SIEGE L

Au Pair Each morning she opens shutters like a book where she is only the sub-plot in their story. On Sundays they sleep late, she dances barefoot in their living room to the weather of bells. Weekdays she wanders their son’s pram down ancient streets, past widows solemn as olive trees. Mid-afternoon, Borghese Gardens, the child naps. Nearby a stone Madonna drapes in moss. Jasmine all around her blooms. She wonders how it is to be a nun. Late above the shining city, night of lilac and cedar, he kisses all the words from her mouth.

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ZACKARY VE RNON

Walking Down Furrows, Talking Down Lines: The Polemics and Poetics of Wilmer Mills È u +}b²É Y Ð Yb²µ ¯µ 8µµb²½ ½}8½ ¬ Ë ½}b nbÉ É the sweetness of the twisted apples,” Donald Justice argues that Wilmer Mills belongs among the ranks of the few. Other literary heavyweights, such as Richard Wilbur and Rachel Hadas, have also hailed Mills as a poet of emotional and stylistic depth. However, Mills’s position as an up-and-comer on the literary scene is not the result of the novelty of his É ² ¢ n µ¯µ b½²Ë n ɵ β8 (  Y¯µ O}8²ub ½ ¬ 8 b ½ bÉV­ it does so by making it very old. Mills is a living, breathing anachronism, steadfastly defying the modes of categorization typically associated with the contemporary, academic poet. His list of past occupations—carpenter, bread baker, teacher, farmer, furniture maker, basket weaver, rafting guide, and poet—reads like the resume of some kind of bucolic Renaissance man, and his reactionary views on agriculture, religion, and poetry, which he espouses É ½} ½}b µb n O oYb ½ }Ë b²F b n ¢ ¢ b O b V 8 b } µbb b 8 É8Ën8²b² n² 8 FËu b b²8¢ n µ }8µ b ½b  µ n ½ ½}b Á st century, it is only out of the necessities of material and temporal reality; } µ ½}b² n ½ µ o² Ë 8 ½bY 8 É ² YV ²b8 ² 8u bYV ½}8½ ²bY8½bµ industrialization.1 ½b²bµ½ u ËV µ¯µ É ² YÈ bÉ µ Yb² ÈbY n² + ½} Ð b² O8 8µ ÂO} 8µ ½}b Ð b² O8 + ½}¢ µ µ b ½ 8 8²ub ²½ n } µ O} Yhood, from age two to age ten, in Brazil, where his parents were agricul½Â²8 µµ 8² bµ n ² ½}b (²bµF˽b² 8 }²O}¢ ,}b bÊ b² b Ob ²8Î proved formative and ended up shaping many facets of Mills’s philosophical outlook. Mills says that the remote area of Brazil where he and his family lived in the early 1970s was a wholly pre-modern, agricultural society, and that growing up in a culture with no electricity and very few machines irrevocably altered his conception of time, investing in him a 1

- bµµ ½}b²É µb ½bYV 8 n ² 8½ n ² ½} µ bµµ8Ë O bµ n² 8 ½b²È bÉ O YÂO½bY É ½} µ È 8 ½b b } b bF²Â8²Ë ÁsV ÁÏ ¢

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photograph by James R. Peters

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pace of life that is fundamentally at odds with much of the contempo²8²ËV YbÈb bY É ² Y¢ Ð ½} Âu} ½}b n8 Ë bn½ ²8Î 8 Y ²b½Â² bY ½ ½}b -¢+¢ gÏV µ µbb µ ½ }8Èb 8²ub Ë n8 bY ½ ½²8 µ ½ n² nb ½}b ,} ²Y 3 ² Y ½ nb ½}b ²µ½V 8 Y bÈb ½ Y8Ë }b 8 ½8 µ 8 interest in living a “static-less existence” that is not always “humming with the frequency of 110 voltage.”

W IL M ER M ILLS

Contingo With a cellphone cricked against her collarbone Ð Y O} V 8 É 8 8 bY }b² O}bb²n u8Îb ÐF Èb ½}b ½²8noO ½}8½V FbË Y }b² } b Ð Y }b² YV }8Y È8 µ}bY¢ 8 }8ÎbV She gestured with her hand, mid-thought, and stepped Directly in the path of several cars. They honked and swerved, avoiding her, except She didn’t notice. ½}8 bY }b² ÂO Ë µ½8²µ ² }b²V Ë }8 Y È Â ½8² Ë Extended in a vain attempt at prayer. Then, later on the crowded bus, my knee Ð Y b F É ²bµµbY b b¢ nb ½ Ë }8 ² Stand up in unavoidable delight, ½ ÂO}V F YË 8 uÂ8ub } ÉbÈb² µ u}½¢

When the Mills family moved from Brazil back to their home in southern Louisiana, Mills’s father rededicated himself to agriculture, an occupation in which his forbears had engaged since they were granted their land by the King of Spain in the late 1700s. Historically, the plains region of southern Louisiana has been devoted to

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½}b ² YÂO½ n Fbbn FbO8µb n ½µ È8µ½V q8½ u²8µµ 8 Yµ¢ ²bOb ½ decades, though, the Mills family has shifted their agricultural output ½ O ÂYb 8 8²ub µO8 b u²8µµ µbbY ² YÂO½ O 8 Ë¢ n8O½V ½} µ µ} n½V which involves all the trappings of modern industrialized agriculture, beu8 8n½b² 3 ² Y 38² É}b µ¯µ u²8 Yn8½}b² F Âu}½ ½}b o²µ½ bO}8nized combine in southern Louisiana. ,}b µ b8 b²µ n ½}b b µ µ¯µ o²µ½ O bO½ Light for the Orphans (2002) consistently exhibit a sense of guilt, presumably based on Mills’s own, over the fact that they abandoned farming. However, Mills seems to despise the highly mechanized and industrialized brand of agriculture practiced by his father as well as the majority of farmers still È ÈbY O b²O 8 8u² O ½Â²b¢ Ð ½} Âu} }b u 8u 8OOb ½bY ½}b impossibility of practicing traditional agriculture, Mills imagines that farming with mules and draft horses is superior to farming with tractors, claiming that there is a certain mysterious cadence that accompanies É ² u 8 ob Y É ½} 8 ½}b² È u O²b8½Â²b¢ ,} µ O8Yb Ob µ Y µ²Â ½bY by the introduction of machines into this natural and, for Mills, sacred µ 8Ob¢ Ð µb n ² O 8 bY ÂYY ½bV µ 8²uÂbµ ½}8½ 8µ Éb FbO b Èb² Ë dependent on technology, we forfeit much of our elemental, instinctual understanding of and communion with the natural world. Therefore, maO} bµ n½b 8O½ 8µ µÂ b²q µ F8²² b²µ Fb½Ébb } 8 µ 8 Y ½}b É ² YV and, as a result, our ability to navigate the world is diminished. (b²}8 µ ½}b µ½ bÈ O8½ Èb 8ub Light for the Orphans occurs in the poem “Rain”: My father’s father called this morning, е u b ½ }b } É bÉ u8²Yb ² ɵV Turn under summer’s weeds and saplings Grown too thick for work by hand with hoes. His mule died years ago, but he still saves The plow, so we connect a single-tree b} Y ½}b ½²8O½ ²V 8 Y  } µ É Ë Through the garden, turning on command, “Gee Haw,” all afternoon until he waves ² b ½ µ½ 8 Y   Y ½ 8½ µ½8Èbµ¢ bn ²b Éb o µ} ½}b µ Ë ½Â² µ O ÂYË¢ ZAC K A RY VE R N O N

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When asked about his grandfather, Mills notes, “He still preferred to do his garden that way, because he had better control of the blade and the rows. So he’d be walking along behind the tractor, without any traces of the tractor, except for metaphysical ones—traces of the old and the new.” ,} µ µOb 8² µ Y ÂF Ë }b8²½F²b8 uV o²µ½ FbO8µb µ¯µ u²8 Yn8½}b² has brought the Leo Marxian machine into the garden and second because his grandfather has instilled in him the desire to pursue traditional farming, a pursuit that will be inevitably and incessantly thwarted. 8YY ½ ½ } µ ½ b µ b ½ n8² u O  ½ bµ n ²8Î and Louisiana, Mills’s interest in agriculture was also catalyzed by the É ² n ½}b + ½}b² Ðu²8² 8 µ¢ µ¯µ o²µ½ bÊ µÂ²b ½ ½}b Ðu²8² 8 µ occurred when, as an adolescent, his mother took him to see Robert (b 38²²b ²b8YV 8 Y 8½b²V É} b 8 µ½ÂYb ½ 8½ +bÉ8 bbV }b µ½ÂY bY 8 Y ÈbY É ½} Ð Y²bÉ Ë½ b¢ ½} 38²²b 8 Y ˽ b Éb²b 8 u ½}b ² u 8 twelve progenitors of agrarianism, and both contributed chapters for the Ðu²8² 8 8 nbµ½ I’ll Take My Stand (1930), in which they promote “a Southern way of life [i.e. agrarianism] against what may be called the Ð b² O8 ² ²bÈ8 u É8Ë K ¢b¢ Yµ½² 8 Î8½ L¢­ Unlike with some southern writers, one rarely gets the feeling that Mills’s advocacy of agrarianism or his employment of stereotypically southern material are the result of a deep-seated desire to sell his work to a backward-glancing regional audience or to a national audience whose craving for authentic local color seems to have dwindled little since *bO µ½²ÂO½ ¢ Ð ½} Âu} µ O  Y Ob²½8 Ë Fb 8OOµbY n Fb u 8 8² O}8 ² Ðu²8² 8 V } µ YbY O8½ ½ ½}b 8½n ² µ ub  b¢ ²b Èb²V µ µ 8É8²b n ½}b Y8 ub²µ n Fb u 8Fb bY 8 Ðu²8² 8 ¢ bµ ½b ½}b + ½}b² Ðu²8² 8 µ¯ µÂ ²½ n ²8O 8 µbu²bu8½ V O Y oO8½ n O 8µµ hierarchies, and tendency to romanticize the Old South, Mills asserts ½}8½ }b b F²8Obµ ½}b Yb ½ oO8½ 8 Y ½}8½ }b }8µ ½½ b 8½ b Ob É ½} those who fail to see the positives of the movement because of its historiO8 F8uu8ub¢ b 8µµb²½µV ¬,}b Yb8 n ½}b ®Ðu²8² 8 ¯ µ ½ µ b½} u ½}8½ ½} µ}  Y Fb ½bY ½ ½}b ½ b b² Y É}b ½}b ®+ ½}b² Ðu²8²ians’ were writing. They were defending a sensibility, a way of life that they perceived to be threatened by industry—a rural agricultural way of life that was threatened by the industrial world.”

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²bOb ½ Ëb8²µV ½}b É ²Yµ ¬Ðu²8² 8 ­ 8 Y ¬8u²8² 8 µ ­ }8Èb experienced an upsurge in popularity, as they have been appropriated 8 Y ²bYbo bY FË O ½b ²8²Ë µO} 8²µV n Y ɲ ½b²µV 8 Y n8² b²µ¢ ² µ½8 ObV The Essential Agrarian Reader: The Future of Culture, Community, and the Land (2003) features writers, such as Wendell Berry, Barbara Kingsolver, and Norman Wirzba, who present agrarianism as a practical worldview that seeks to accomplish positive stewardship of the earth’s resources. The emphasis on organic and natural crops, µ É n YµV n8² b²µ¯ 8² b½µV (еV O8 µ V µÂµ½8 8F b 8u² O ½Â²bV and the rights of animals and workers in this collection has its roots

W IL M ER M ILLS

Telos ¬ ½²b *b8Y uµ­ n ² 8 §Â8²½b²· ,}b O8²Yµ· The tea leaves; Talmud numbers; Mayan clocks That tell us Time will end in twenty-twelve; The Book of Revelation; Save your breath. ¯Èb u ½ ½}b µ Ë ½}b É Y É U b8½}l We’re gonna die, which isn’t knocking the bards Or carvings on apocalyptic rocks. Man, even pills expire. So why not shelve The matter of impending human doom. Under hips and valleys of your body’s room, The post-and-lintel of your shoulder bones Supports the walls that girdle your peaceful zones. Let breathing be a comfort to you there. Delight in the softness of your eyebrow hair.

ZAC K A RY VE R N O N

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W IL M ER M ILLS

Tangere Lament the motion-activated light Ð Y µ Y u Y ²µ ½}8½ b½ Ë Â 8 Y ½ Of grocery stores. Question the subtle art Ð Y µ u}½ n }8 Y É}b²bFË 8O} bµ µb²½ Caesuras of air between what used to be Ð bÈb 8 ² n , ÂO} ? ,} u¢ The eye That scans your credit card is not alive. The digital hands of time will never shake. But human hands emit a small amount Of infra-red, a healing kind of heat. Devices are divisive, and cold, so let 5 ² o ub²µ char the world and feel it lilt, Rendering music out of subway ells With carillons of elevator bells.

in an agrarian philosophy that has developed throughout the twentieth century, retaining many of the positive life-sustaining traditions of earlier manifestations of agrarianism, all the while shedding many of its problematic social and political platforms. Mills consistently cites two examples of people in the present who 8²b È u ½}b Ðu²8² 8 Y²b8 U ½}b Ð µ}V É} }8Èb 8 ½8 bY 8 µÂµtainable model of agriculture and scorned technological advancements, and Wendell Berry, for whom Mills voted as a write-in candidate during the 2004 presidential election, because Berry embodies the principles he “wanted for the country and the world.” Yet, Mills seems to have more in common with contemporary organic hipsters and hippies than }b Y bµ É ½} ½}b + ½}b² Ðu²8² 8 µ n ½}b b8² Ë ¾Ïµ¢ +² ² µ u ËV

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Mills is comfortable with this comparison, claiming that while he does ½ O Y b ½}b ¬ bÉ ÐubË­ Yb u bµ n½b 8µµ O 8½bY É ½} ½}b O temporary sustainable movement, he does advocate the sense of environmental awareness present in the movement. Mills admits that the manover-nature hierarchy in Genesis has been used historically to sustain an anthropocentric perspective of the planet, but he also notes that the Bible can be employed to teach positive environmental stewardship: Many people accuse Christians, and rightly so in some cases, of raping the planet in the name of dominion. There are a lot of Christians now, though, who are trying to reverse that trend in the sense of stewardship and dominion in a different sense. 3b 8²b O}8²ubV b ½ ² ½V 8µ ½}b u8²Yb b²µV 8 Y 8u²bb with those impulses. Ð ½} Âu} ½}b b µ½b u O8 n  Y8½ µ n µ 8 Y ½}b ¬ bÉ ÐubË­ ² b ½µ 8Ë Y nnb²V  ½ 8½b Ë ½}b ² 8½n ² µ 8²b Èb²Ë µ 8²¢ ² instance, Mills’s assertion that “The chemicals and pesticides are killing us. We need organic food” would probably be equally accepted at a Bob bµ F b nb²b Ob ² 8½ ½}b O}bO ½ O  ½b² n 8 3} b Yµ¢ ,}b Ë u n ½}bµb ½É Y µ 8²8½b Yb u²8 } Oµ ²bqbO½µ ½}b n8O½ ½}8½ sustainable agriculture, in its local and organic manifestations, tends to attract people on the far right and far left, religious fundamentalists and  ½²8 Fb²8 µ¢ Ð ½} Âu} µ µ Ybµ É ½} ½}b n ² b² µ ² ½Â8 8½½b²µV he appreciates the latter for the fact that they have come into “contact with dirt” and, as a result, are “attuned to the natural world and to agriculture as something essential to being human.” b ½}b + ½}b² Ðu²8² 8 µ É} ² }bY ½ ½}b bÉ ² ½ OµV Mills’s investment in agriculture and his interest in antiquated farming techniques have lead him to a preoccupation with technique and process in other areas of his life, most notably his poetry. Mills has been particu 8² Ë qÂb ObY FË * Fb²½ ² µ½V 8µ 8 ²bµÂ ½ n É} O} }b µ 8 8È Y Fb bÈb² µ½²ÂO½Â²bYV n ² 8 b½²Ë¢ ² bÊ8 bV 8 Ë n } µ b µ ½ Îb strict iambic meter, rhyme schemes, or stanzaic forms. This interest in form was catalyzed by a history of agricultural experiences and agricultural metaphors. Mills notes that the word for one of the earliest forms of Greek writing, boustrophedon, simply means “bull turning,” and in ZAC K A RY VE R N O N

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some of the original poems recorded by the Greeks, the lines read from left to right, and right to left. Therefore, the lines of the poems mimicked ½}b É u n 8 ob Y¢ ÐYY ½ 8 ËV ½}b É ²Y ¬Èb²µb­ µ Yb² È8½ Èb n ½}b Latin word versus, which refers to the point at which a farmer turns the plow to start another row. Mills laments the alteration of language and metaphor as we lose touch with agriculture. Mills’s insistence that the poet must submit to the structures of certain poetic modes may seem anathema to some poets’ desires for freedom 8 Y µb n bÊ ²bµµ ¢ ÐOO ²Y u ½ µV µ b O ½b ²8²Ë b½µ 8²b self-indulgent in the degree to which their poems only tell their own stories and explore their own inner lives. However, for Mills, form becomes a means of escaping many of the pitfalls inherent in free verse. Mills claims ½}8½ }b µbµ b½b² 8µ 8 ² µ½ 8 u Y b u}F ² ² YÂO u F8²² b² Fb½Ébb autobiographical poems and poems that tell someone else’s story. The device allows him to divorce the two, ensuring that his poetic sketches of the people, real or imagined, that he cares for so deeply do not get narcisµ µ½ O8 Ë O q8½bY É ½} } µ É Yb ½ ½Ë ² } µ É É8Ë n u 8½ ½}b world. While admitting that there is a time and place to break the rules of poetics, Mills strives to break them in meaningful, well-informed ways. This extensive use of form puts Mills in line with many of the pob½µ n ½}b ¬ bÉ ² 8 µ½­ Èb b ½V µÂO} 8µ * O}8²Y 3 F²V 8 Y µ½ ObV 8 Y Ð ½} Ë bO}½¢ µ ½bµV ½} Âu}V ½}8½ ½}b²b µ ²b8 Ë ½} u bÉ 8F ½ ¬ bÉ ² 8 µ V­ 8 Y ½}8½ µ½b8Y }b É Â Y b ½ Fb Yb ½ obY 8µ 8 ¬ Y ² 8 µ½¢­ ÐYY ½ 8 ËV µ O  Y Fb O8 bY a pastoral poet, a label that comes to mind not only because he writes so passionately about the corruption of natural and agricultural spaces but also because one of the strongest poems in Light for the Orphans, ¬Ð ²ub n ² b8È uV­ nb8½Â²bµ 8 b u²8 } n² ½}b b bu 8O 8µ½ ²8 µ½ ,} 8µ ²8Ë¢ µ µ8˵V ¬ b F²8Ob ½}b Yb8 n ˵b n 8µ 8 Ðu²8² 8 V F½ n µ b b Y bµ ¯½ b ½}b O ½8½ µ n ½}8½V ½}b ¯ ½8 b ® 8µ½ ²8 ¢¯ ¯ ½8 b FÂO O ² b ²u O¢ ½¯µ 8 u ½²8Y ½ ½}8½ u bµ F8O 8 u ½ b ½ 2 ²u 8 Y FbË Y¢ ½ µ n½b ½}b b½ É} ²bO u Îbµ ½}b importance of the natural world, how one tends it through agriculture and horticulture and husbandry. There is a connection between the life of walking down furrows and talking down lines.”

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Despite the fact that Mills’s agrarian subject matter and his advoO8OË n b½ O ½²8Y ½ µ 8²b qÂb ObY FË 8µ½ ²8 8 Y n ² 8 µ½ YbµV his vision of reality seems more closely related to William Blake than to ,} 8µ ²8Ë ² * Fb²½ ² µ½¢ ¯µ É ² Y µ b }8F ½bY FË É8²² u powers and principalities, which in his thinking are not mere symbols or b½8 } ²µ¢ ½}b É ² Y µ }8F ½µV ½}b µ Ë µ 8 Èb É ½} ½}b O 8µ} u n Yb µ¯ µÉ ²Yµ 8 Y ½}b O²b ½8½ n 8 ub µ¯ É uµ¢ е 8 ²bµÂ ½ of this worldview, Mills’s poetry, at its best, is invested with a prophetic intensity, enabling the poet-auger to interrogate and disrupt the status quo. However, at times, his poetry can border on the didactic and even ½}b ²b8O½ 8²Ë¢ ² u Y ² V µ¯µ b²µ bO½ Èb µ µ ²½} Y Ê ½}8½ ½ has swung back around and become unorthodox, something new out of things very old. To read a transcript of the interview that occassioned this essay and additional poems by Wilmer Mills visit our website at: www.thecarolinaquarterly.com.

ZAC K A RY VE R N O N

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P O RT FOL IO

Texas is the Reason THE PHOTOGRAPHY of AMANDA MULLEE

Working in the tradition of documentary photography, these pieces seek to capture a sense of mystery in the seemingly ordinary moments n nb¢ Ð 8 Y8  bb¯µ ²½²8 ½Â²b bÊ ²bµ ½}b µË F O Éb² n bÊpression, gesture and composition. Yet she is also drawn to places where there is a notable absence of people, environments that contain visual ½²8Obµ n O ½Â²b¢ µ¢  bb ²bµ Ybµ е½ V ,bÊ8µ¢

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YOUNG CAR NI VAL WOR KER | Johnson City, Texas, Summer 2010

A M A N DA M U L L E E

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THE FARM

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| Austin, Texas, Winter 2010


G EORG E SIN GLETON

Fresh Meat on Wheels Before ceremonially burning down a life-sized replica of the Cal µ½ É Â²½} µbiÉ} O} bÈb² bÊ µ½bY ½}b o²µ½ 8ObiF ½ Èb² ½}b ²bÈ Âµ Ëb8² 8 ob Y 8Y 8Ob ½ ½ ²¢ ²µb¯µ ½²bb n8² 8 Y ²µery, it was tradition to take every sixth grader to the various attractions b8²FË¢ ,} µ O ÂYbY ½}b ub² µb V É}b²b 8 8 }8Y µbÈb²bY Y u ½µ q 8½ u n ² 8 Yb}ËYb n² 8 ½}b Â É Y b É} }8Y chainsaw accidents over the years. Then we would all go, via minibus, ½ 8 ½8Ê Yb² µ½¯µ 8Ob É}b²b }b¯Y µb½  ,}b +8nbµ½ (b½½ u 7 Èb²¢ Our sixth grade teacher, Ms. Whalen, said that we were to understand what there is to appreciate about our hometown before viewing what General Sherman could’ve done if he’d understood Calloustown’s meaningfulness, and not veered away on his march between Savannah and Columbia. Since the invention of the mini-bus, sixth grade boys at Calloustown Elementary spent the night at Ms. Whalen’s house, for early in the ² u }b² }µF8 YiÉ}   ½ ½} µ ½ ¯Y 8 É8˵ ½} Âu}½ 8 otherwise good man named Ben who somehow broke away from local

Ð 8 Y O µb YbY bµµiÉ Â Y ub½ µ ½ ub½}b² 8 Y Y² Èb µ 8²  Y the countryside in order to point out what General Sherman missed by µÉb²È u 8É8Ë n² 8 µ½ É ¢ ,}b µ ʽ} u²8Yb u ² µV b8² bYV 8 stayed at the other sixth grade teacher’s house, a woman named Ms. Harrell, in order to learn about what was going to happen to their bod bµ µ ¢ Y ¯½ É n ½¯µ ½²Âb ² ½V F½ Fbn ²b ½}b Fµ ½}b Calloustown kids stayed at other ex-teachers’ households for the night Fbn ²b b F8² u  b bY É8u µ¢ Ð Y Fbn ²b ½}b  bµV ½} µb ²

8 µ½ É Yµ }8Y ½ 8 É8 ½ V µ8ËV ½}b ub² µb V É} O} ² F8F Ë }b Y b o ub² Y µ 8Ë Ë¢ “Do not bring up the fact that we’re democrats, Luke,” my mother ²b YbY b 8µ µ}b  bY  ½ µ¢ 3}8 b ¯µ } µb¢ ¬ n 8 Ë b 8µ µ you if you’re a Christian, it’s best to go ahead and lie. What’s it going to 8½½b²V µbb u 8µ Éb Y ¯½ u ½ O}²O} 8 ËÉ8˨ n Ë Â² ½b8O}b² nnb²µ

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you a baloney sandwich for breakfast, just go ahead and eat it seeing as it’s not going to kill you much.” µ8 YV ¬3}Ë 8 }b²b 8u8 ¨ 3}8½¯µ u u ¨­ My mother put the car in neutral, and then seemed to experiment É ½} ²bÈb²µb 8 Y b n ½}b Éb² ub8²µ¢ +}b µ8 YV ¬Ð²b ½}bË ½ ½b8O} u you any Existentialism at Calloustown Elementary?” Y Y ¯½ ub½ ½¢ µ8 YV ¬,b b 8u8 É} +}b² 8 É8µ¨­ ½¯µ ½ b É8µ ¯½ n² ½}b + ½}i ½¯µ µ½ ½}8½ Ë 8²b ½µ É8½O}bY ½}b bɵ 8½ night, and read books written by people who won awards, and they didn’t sit around moaning about how things could’ve been, like my classmates’ 8²b ½µ µbb bY ½ Y ¢ ¬Ð Y u ½}² Âu} bµÂµ 8u8 V µ½ O8µb¢­ My mother laughed. She leaned over and kissed my forehead and µ8 YV ¬5 ¯ Fb o b¢ u ½ Ë Â µ b µ bO 8 u²8Ë q8 b 8 8 8µ 8O bY  n ² Ë Â ½ Éb8² µ Ë Â¯ o½ ¢ ½² bY ½ Y²8É 8 +½8²µ 8 Y 8²µ Ë Â² µ bb u F8u F½ ½ µ½ O8 b ½ 8 u 8 ½ 4¢ n 8 Ë b 8µ µV µ8Ë ½ faded and ran in the washing machine.” Y Y ¯½ ub½ ½} µb ²b 8² µV b ½}b²¢ µ8 YV ¬ ½¯µ 28 b ½ b¯µ 8Ë¢ they do this everywhere on Valentine’s Day?” b b²8 +}b² 8 F² bY  F 8V + ½} 8² 8 bF²Â8²Ë ¸V g¹p¢ ÐOO ²Y u ½ ½}b Yb Îb µ n 8 µ½ É V }b µ}  Y¯Èb F² bY ½}b ² ½ É ½}b on½bb ½}V n }b }8Y 8 Ë µb µb n ½}b ² u}½ ½} u to do, on his way back North. My mother said, “More or less.” General Sherman didn’t consider our ancestors’ town worthy of torching, and the consequences, over the next seven or eight generations, weren’t unpredictable: a miniscule region of high-voiced men and women whose families intermarried endlessly, producing higher-voiced nnµ ² uV 8Y o ½Â V 8 58 bb }8½ uV Y µ½²Âµ½n V µ½Â u² Yb²µ and third-shift health professionals at what still got called the Callous½ É b n ² ½}b bbF b 8 Y µO ²8ubY¢ bÊ8uub²8½bV F½ ½ ÂO}¢ Beginning in sixth grade civics class a variety of students would blurt out ¬+}b² 8 Y Y ¯½ ½} 8 ²È bÉ ( 8 ½8½ É8µ u Y b Âu} ½ F² l +} ɵ Ë Â É}8½ }b bÉl ,}bË u ½ ½}b n ² FbY² µ ½}b²bV 8 Y ½É ² µbµl­ b½ Ob½b²8V ½}b ² 8²Ë Êbµ µ§Âb8 u µÂO} O²bY µ o bY G E O RG E S I N G L E TO N

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T HOM A S H ORAN

Eat the Cake 5  O8 ¯½ }8Èb Ë Â² O8 b 8 Y b8½ ½ ½ ¢ n Ë Â Y ¯½ b8½ ½V ½}b cake will get stale and moldy and inedible. Or ants will get into it. Or the dog will climb up on the table and eat it. Or your mom will feed it to company. You don’t really have a choice between eating your cake 8 Y }8È u ½¢ 5 ² O} Ob µV b ½}b² Ë Â b8½ ½ ² Ë Â Y ¯½¢ µ8Ë b8½ the cake. Ë n8½}b² u²bÉ Â ½}b µ½ É ¢ Ð ½ n b b ÈbY Y² u the time of the Dust Bowl, but my father actually lived in the Dust Bowl. He told me about living in a tarpaper shack, he and his four brothers and their parents and their grandmother. He told me about living on boiled jackrabbits and government surplus rice and red beans and going hungry in between. He told me about locusts. He told me about leaving home 8½ s ½ o Y É ² FbO8µb } µ 8²b ½µ O  Y ub² 8nn ²Y ½ nbbY ½}b two oldest boys. He told me about the time he hadn’t eaten for three days, and a railroad foreman promised him that if my father unloaded a 60-ton car of coal—with a shovel—he’d buy him a chicken-fried steak dinner in the restaurant across the street. My father said the chicken-fried steak in this 8Ob É8µ ½}b µ Îb n 8 ½²ÂO ½ ²b 8 Y ½}b 8µ}bY ½8½ bµ q 8½bY 8 ²¢ He told me the railroad foreman was so impressed by my father eating ½}b b ½ ²b Y b² ½}8½ }b 8 Y n ² 8 ½}b² b¢ Ð Y Ë n8½}b² 8½b ½}8½ one, too. My mother was a barmaid in a Colorado honky-tonk. She went out on a date with my father. Then they had to get married. My mother baked their wedding cake herself. My mother baked stupendous cakes from scratch. She would bake devil’s food cakes that took blue ribbons at church bake-offs. She would F8 b b8 b  µ Yb Y É O8 bµ ½}8½ ½Â² bY  Yb²¯µ 8Ë O Oµ  -

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side down. She would bake red, white and blue confetti cakes for the ²½} n  ˢ +}b É Â Y F8 b u ub²F²b8Y b É ½} Ë 8 b ½}b ¢ ub²F²b8Y µ ¯½ ²b8 Ë F²b8Yi ½¯µ O8 b¢ +} ²½F²b8Y µ O8 b¢ ( kin bread is cake. But cheesecake isn’t cake—it’s cream cheese custard. On a graham cracker crust. You shouldn’t bake it, either—you should O ½ 8 µ½b8 F8½}¢ Ð Y µ½ O²b8 b µ ²b8 Ë O8 bV ½ b¢ Ð Y bµ 8²b ²b8 Ë O bµ¢ ,É bµ 8²b O8 biµ ub O8 biF½ they’re extruded, not baked. Brioche is basically cake made with hard q ² 8 Y Ëb8µ½ µ½b8Y n F8 u ÉYb²V 8 Y F² O}b É ½} 8 ½}b middle is Danish. 5  O8 F8 b 8 O8 b¢ (²b}b8½ Ë Â² Èb ½ ¾pÏ Ybu²bbµ ¢ 8 µ½8 bµµ µ½bb F É V Ê q ²iµ n½ q ² ² 8µ½²Ë q ²iµÂu8²V É8½b²V F8 ing powder, a teaspoon of oil, and two or three raw eggs (whites only, n Ë Â¯²b ½²Ë u ½ 8 b 8 Ð ub n Y O8 b¢ bb ½}b È F²8½ µ n ½}b b bO½² O Êb² b b²u Îb Ë Â² }8 Yµ¢ n Ë Â o Y 8 ²bY µ ½ b n Ë Â² buuµV µ½ q O ½ nn É ½} 8 n ² ¢ 5 ² O8 b É ½Â² ½ µ½ o b¢ ( ² ½} µ F8½½b² ½ 8 u²b8µbY O8 b 8 8 Y ½ ½}b 8 ½}b Èb ¢ Set the timer for 35 minutes. Then you can lick the bowl. You can get salmonella from eating uncooked egg products, but you can also spend your whole life worrying about all the things that might }8 b ¢ ( O your poison. When you hear the bell ring, your mouth will begin to water. Open the oven door, but be careful not to let the heat singe off your eyebrows. +½ O 8 n ² Ë Â² O8 b ½ µbb n ½¯µ Y b¢ n ½¯µ ½ Y bV Y ¯½ F ½}b² putting it back in the oven, because when you opened the door, the temperature inside the oven dropped far enough that if you put your cake F8O ½ ½}b Èb ½ o µ} F8 uV ½}b ½µ Yb É ½Â² ½ 8µFbµ½ µ 8 Y ½}b µ Yb µ½ É ¯½ O ¢ Ð Y Y ¯½ u ½} u Ë Â¯²b µ b ub µ 8µ½²Ë O}bn 8 Y ½ Ë Â²  Y b O8 b ½}b O² É8Èb ½ o µ} O u “from the inside out,” because all that will happen is that your cake will explode, adhering to the inside of the microwave like asphalt.

TH OM A S H O R A N

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JA NIS BUT L E R HOLM

Ripple Effect е 8 ½½ b u ² ²b8Y u n8 ²Ë ½8 bµV O8 b 8O² µµ ½}b É ²Y ¬²b bY¢­ ,} Âu} 8 F µ} O} YV µ b} É ²b8Y ¬²b bY­ 8µ ¬² bYV­ 8µ ¬ bO8µb µ8 Y µ V­ ½}b ² Ob ² bY¢ ½ µbb bY ½ b ½}8½ 8 }8 Yµ b ² Ob É Â Y µ b8 8 F²bbÎË manner; his language would roll trippingly off the tongue. Even as a O} YV  Yb²µ½ Y ½}8½ ² Ë8 ½Ë O8 Fb O8µÂ8 8F ½ ½} uµ ½}b ²bµ½ n µ take seriously. ¬ ¯Èb µ 8 ½}b Y²8u V­ ½}b ² Ob ² bY¢ ¬ ¯ É8 b }b² É ½} 8 µµV­ ½}b ² Ob ² bY¢ “You will be my queen,” the prince rippled. ¬ n O ²µb }8Èb 8 µ½²bµµV­ ½}b ² Ob ² bY¢

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M AT T HE W H AMIT Y

Regarding Donor #5873 and Him or Her Dear Elise B., How are you? b8 ½}Ë 8µ 8 } ²µbV } b¢ 3 ½} O} YFb8² u } µ¢ Ð Y 8 µ Îb8F b uterus to boot. +½8²½bY ²8O½ O u 8 Ë F²b8½} u ½bO} §Âbµ Ëb½¨ ½¯µ bÈb² ½ b8² Ë¢ 8}b8Y¢ q8½b Ë Â²µb n¢   8 ½}b nb Ë Â O8 ¢ ,}b O  ½ ½ three and give it back to the world. Keep your in-breaths and your outbreaths equal. Breathe for him or her. Ð Y n ² b ½ V Ë Â² } F b Y ²V pg¸¾ n ½}b b8½Â²bY ² (² o bµ¢ You can call me Daryl. ¯ µÂ² ² µbY ½}8½ ¯ ɲ ½ u ½} µ b 8 ¢ 3}b b ½b²bY ½}b

} O8u ²Ë F8 ½ O Â Ë o 8 O}bO _¾Ïg¢¾ÁV 8n½b² ½8Êbµ 8 Y n  Y ½}b ²bOb ½ µ½¯µ Ybµ b ½ËV É}b µ Y b ½}b É Y É ½}8½ separates donors from staff and twisted my body through, straining toward the topmost cabinet drawer, spying and snatching a manila folder b8² ½}b F8O 8² bY pg¸¾V É}b ²b8YV Fb É Ë ½ ½Ë 8 Y ²phology statistics, your email address adjacent to the phrase: Sample Delivered, 5873-AB14 Shady Grove Fertility Center, 7/8/07, (your email was the only one listed—you are the sole recipient of my seed, for better ² É ²µb V É}b ɲ ½b Ë Â² b 8 8YY²bµµ Ë }8 Y É ½} 8 } O8u

²Ë F8 b V µ½ bÈb² ½} Âu}½ É Â Y Y8²b ²bÈb8 ½}b (² o b bY ½ ²µ¯ bµV ½}8½ ¯Y }8Èb ½}b O ²8ub ½ ½ ½ Ë }b8²½ 8 Y b½ ½}b O ½b ½µ µ V µ 8½½b² u b 8ubV µ 8 u ½}b bʽ¢ n8O½V ½½bY Ë Â² 8YY²bµµ Ë }8 YV ½ 8 bOb n 8 b²V ²bO µb Ë FbO8µb ou²bY ¯Y u } bV forget about it, and wash my hands. YbO YbY ½ O b F8O n ² Ë _¾Ïg¢¾Á µ b ½}b² ½ b¢ bbYbY 8 8 V bÊ}8µ½bY n² ½}b µ½²bµµ n µ u¢ ½ ½}b (8Ob Fµ¢ counted down the stops: 41st and Saratoga, 39th and Highland, 37th and Highland, 35th and Vernard. M AT TH E W H A M I T Y

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N A N CY C A RO L MOODY

When They Ask About My Face É µ8Ë µ b½} u about snow, the skittered tracks of a hare just prior to the hush É µ8Ë É Y F ²bµ salt into sea-boards, taut rope burns a furrow, leaf-rust in spring autumns elms Hoarfrost bit by hob nail meadow after the scythe the dory’s barnacled hull a peppermint held too long against the palate When they ask about my face, É µ8Ë ½}8½ bÈb 8 ½² YYb O8²² 8ub leaves wheelmarks in the stone, ½}8½ µ}²8 b O8 q8²b a staggering tattoo, that left to their own devices, µ 8² µ n Y u}½ o²bÉ ² µ will carve ferocious trails into the black wax of the sky

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ALIETTE

| Foret—Panel 2

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ALIETTE

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| Foret—Panel 3


ALIETTE

| Foret—Panel 4

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photograph by Susan Bledsoe

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I NT ERVIE W

“You Gotta Speak American Nowâ€? A CONVERSATION WITH SYBIL KEIN +Ă‹F€‡ b€Â? €¾ 8 Â?²Â‘‡€oO Â?‘b½V Y²8Š8½Â€¾½V ŠÂ¾€O€8Â? 8Â?Y ÂľO}‘‡8² ‘n ‘€siana Creole culture. Born and raised in New Orleans, she has spent her career documenting the city’s steadily shrinking Creole community and working to preserve the dying Creole language and culture. Kein’s personal connection to her work—she spoke only Creole until she was a teenager—gives her unique access to a history and culture that is slowly disappearing from both American scholarship and the country at large. Kein is the author of ŠF‘ (b‘Â?‡b (1999), the only book ever published in Louisiana Creole. She has also written nine plays, several volumes of poetry and multiple albums of classical music. She was named a chercher associĂŠ of the Sorbonne Nouvelle in Paris for her scholarship on Creole culture, and has received the Hopwood Award for her writing. Kein was recently honored as a distinguished professor emerita at the University of Michigan. I spoke with Kein in November 2010, in the lobby of her hotel in Chapel Hill, NC, where she was scheduled to give a talk entitled “Louisiana

²b‘‡b ‡½Ă‚²b 8Â?Y €½¾ +€uÂ?€oO8Â?Ob €Â? ½}b Ă Â˜st Century.â€? This interview has been edited for length and arranged to group related answers. —Emily Banks I. “YOU COULD STILL SMELL THE BLOODâ€? Carolina Quarterly: Why is Louisiana Creole culture fading away? Sybil Kein: Creole people have been leaving New Orleans and other parts ‘n ‘€¾€8Â?8 n‘² YbO8YbÂľ Â?‘É¢ Â? n8O½V ½}bĂ‹ ¾½8²½bY ‡b8ĂˆÂ€Â?u ²Â€u}½ Fbn‘²b the Civil War, and then after the Civil War there was a great migration SY B I L K E I N

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n ²b b µ b8 b²µ ½ 8 n ² 8V bÉ 5 ² 8 Y bÈb ½ ² b¢ Ðn½b² ( bµµË È¢ b²uµ g ¹V É} O} F8µ O8 Ë Y È YbY ½}b -+  8½ into black and white, Creole people were regarded as not belonging to any group. We were left out of so many things for so long that people started leaving the south. CQ: You grew up speaking Creole. How do you feel about it dying out? SK: ¯ µ8Y 8F ½ ½}b n8O½ ½}8½ ½¯µ 8 YË u 8 uÂ8ub¢ É8µ ½}b o²µ½ b²son to write in Creole, and it was my native language, the language that µ b 8µ 8 O} Y¢ Èb ½¢ 3}b o²µ½ Éb ½ ½ µO} V Ë ½}b² É Â Y µ8ËV ¬5  u ½½8 µ b8 Ð b² O8 ÉV ²b b¢­ ½} É8µ b u}½} u²8Yb Fbn ²b µ8 Y 8 ˽} u ½ 8 ËF YË¢ Y Y ¯½ É8 ½ ½ µ b8 u µ}¢ ,}b²b Éb²b b ² two other kids in school who knew Creole, but we weren’t allowed to speak it. My mother and aunts and uncles were beaten on the playground n ½}bË µ b ½ ½}b O 8µµ² ¢ ²bOb ½ Ë ½b²È bÉbY b n Ë 8 ½µ 8 Y µ}b É8µ µ½ 8n²8 Y ½ ½8 8F ½ ½¢ µ8 YV ¬3}8½ }8 b bY¨­ +}b was whispering even though there was no one around. She said, “They would take us out of class if we spoke it, and they would whip us and they would hit us on the hands.” CQ: Hopefully the work you’ve done will help preserve it for future generations. What made you decide to dedicate so much of your career to writing in and about Creole? SK: My uncle Charlie had a storage room full of books printed in all Yµ n 8 uÂ8ubµ¢ 3}b É8µ b b b ½8²Ë µO} É Â Y 8½ ½}b 8 Y ½²Ë ½ ²  Ob ½}b É ²Yµ¢ Ð nbÉ Ëb8²µ 8½b² YbO YbY É Â Y µb bO½ ½}b 8²ubµ½ F O  Y o Y Ë Â O b¯µ O bO½ 8 Y ½²Ë ½ ²b8Y ½¢ ,}b 8²ubµ½ F n  Y É8µ The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare¢ ½ ½ Ë F² ½}b²¯µ É8u iÉ ½} 8 F ½ n 8 µ½²Âuu bi and opened it under our tin-covered shed on the backyard steps. My ½}b² ½ Y b 8 ½½ b 8F ½ ½}8½ F 8 Y 8Yb  ½}b ²bµ½¢ É8µ intrigued.

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Trying to read Shakespeare—and reading other books later—was a conµ½8 ½ ²b Yb² ½}8½ Ë o²µ½ 8 uÂ8ubV  µ 8 8 ²b O} ²b bV É8µ considered a language of stupid people who were too dumb to speak 8 ˽} u b µb¢ ½ É8µ ½}b 8 uÂ8ub ½µb n ½}8½ O8²² bY ½}b 8² n u ²8 Ob¢ YbO YbY ½}8½ É Â Y É ² ½ n²bb ²b b j Ë o²µ½ 8 uÂ8ubV ½}b language of my ancestors – from negative stereotypes. CQ: Your book Gumbo People is the only book ever written in Creole. Why is there so little scholarly work on the culture? SK: bO8µb K½}b O ½Â²bL µ ½ É Yb Ë É ¢ ÐYY ½ 8 ËV 8 ½ n É}8½ }8µ Fbb ɲ ½½b 8F ½ ²b bµ µ 8Fµ ½b bµ¢ }8Y 8 u²b8½ 8 ½ who was killed because of the lies people told. She was a prostitute in Storyville. One night a man came to see her. He started drinking and then he told her that he’d heard talk that she was mixed with black people. Ð Y µ}b bY ½} u b 8 ˽} u F 8O V F½ }b¯Y }b8²Y ½}b ²Â ² from another prostitute. So they go to the bedroom and he screws her. Ð Y ½}b 8n½b²É8²Y }b µ ½µ }b² ½}² 8½ }8 nÉ8Ë 8O² µµ 8 Y ½}² ɵ }b² down the stairs. My grandmother was taken as a child to the place that she was killed. She said you could still smell the blood. II. “HURRY UP AND SWALLOW IT WHILE IT’S STILL BEATING” CQ: Voodoo comes up regularly in your work. What role does it play in Creole culture? SK: Voodoo is an important part of everyday life in many Creole house} Yµ¢ u²bÉ Â É ½} F ½} 8½} O µ 8 Y 2 Y V b bÈb²Ë b b µb Ë b u}F ²} Y¢ ½ É8µ b }8È u 8 bʽ²8 µb½ n ²8Ëb²µ 8 Y 8 extra set of rules. There are certain things you live by and that you do not do. Voodoo is where the saying “what goes around comes around” comes from. That’s the base of the religion. ½ 8 µ ½b8O}bµ Ë Â } É ½ Èb 8 u Y nb¢ 3}b É8µ 8 ½½ b u ² V bÈb²Ë ² u É}b É b  ¯Y ub½ Ë O n O nnbb j ½}8½ É8µ ½Ë O8 j 8 Y ¯Y ub½ Ë µO²ÂF F²Âµ} 8 Y 8 8 n É8½b² 8 Y ¯Y u ½}b F8O Ë8²Y 8 Y SY B I L K E I N

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ub½ µ b ²bY F² O ¢ ¯Y b½ ½}b F² O µ 8 ½}b É8½b² 8 Y ½}b ¯Y µO²ÂF ½}b F8O µ½b µ n ½}b } µb¢ }8Y ½ Y ½} µ bÈb²Ë ² uV FbO8µb ½ kept away bad luck, or “guion.” CQ: Were a lot of these traditions passed down through women? SK: 5bµ¢ Ð Y ½}bË Éb²b 8µµbY Y É ½ b 8²½ O 8² µ Ob É8µ n8µO 8½bY FË 8 n ½}8½¢ b8² bY 8F ½ Y nnb²b ½ ½Ë bµ n ½²bbµ 8 Y 8 ½µ – respecting nature was very important. Certain grasses could be used n ² µ bO oO bY O 8 ² µbµV 8 Y Ë Â O  Y ¯½ ½ ÂO} ½}b  bµµ Ë Â needed them, for example. My mother used to use these big leaves – we called them elephant ears – to cure a fever.

“Pour Toi” from  F (b b

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CQ: Ă?Â?Y Y€Y ½}8½ ɑ²Â†¨ SK: 5bÂľV €½ ɑ²Â†bY¢ ½ F²Â‘Ă‚u}½ ˑ² nbĂˆb² Y‘ÉÂ?¢ 3}bÂ? É8Âľ Ăˆb²Ă‹ ‡€½½Â‡b j ŠÂ¾½ }8Ăˆb FbbÂ? 8F‘½ b€u}½ ‘² Â?€Â?b j ŠË 8Ă‚Â?½ Julia, who was just a little bit over four feet high with bright red hair 8Â?Y n²bO†‡bÂľV Â‡Â€ĂˆbY Fb¾€Yb Ă‚Âľ €Â? 8 Âľ}‘½uĂ‚Â? Y‘ÂF‡b¢ Â?b Y8Ă‹ É8Âľ Â?‡8Ă‹ing in the yard and she called me over. She had just killed a turtle. She said, “Come here and hold out your hand and hold it steady.â€? Then she took the turtle’s heart out of the turtle while it was still beating and said, “Swallow it, hurry up and swallow it while it’s still beating.â€? You didn’t Âľ8Ă‹ Â?‘ ½Â‘ Ă?Ă‚Â?½ ‡€8V ¾‘ ¾É8‡‡‘ÉbY €½¢ Ă?Â?Y Âľ}b Âľ8€YV ÂŹ ‘É ˑ¯‡‡ }8Ăˆb a long life.â€? CQ: Wow. Those cultural traditions were obviously a major part of your childhood. Do you think kids in more recent generations are learning about them the same way you did? SK: ½¯¾ }8²Y ½Â‘ Âľ8Ă‹ j }8ĂˆbÂ?¯½ Â‡Â€ĂˆbY €Â? bÉ ²Â‡b8Â?Âľ n‘² 8 É}€‡bV 8Â?Y 8 ‡‘½ ‘n ŠË ²b‡8½Â€ĂˆbÂľ 8²b u‘Â?b¢ Y‘Â?¯½ †Â?‘É €n €½ ¾½Â€Â‡Â‡ u‘bÂľ ‘Â? ‡€†b €½ Ă‚ÂľbY ½Â‘¢ Y‘Â?¯½ ½}€Â?† Š8Â?Ă‹ O}€‡Y²bÂ? ½Â‘Y8Ă‹ }8Ăˆb ½}b bĂŠÂ?b²Â€bÂ?Ob }8Y u²Â‘ɀÂ?u Ă‚Â?¢ III. “STUCK IN THE MIDDLEâ€? CQ: Race was a controversial topic in the aftermath of Katrina. What are your thoughts on our “post-racialâ€? society? SK: ‡‘¾½ bĂˆb²Ă‹½}€Â?u €Â? 8½²Â€Â?8¢ Ă?n½b² ½}b ¾½Â‘²ÂŠ ÉbÂ?½ ½Â‘ ¾½8Ă‹ ɀ½} 8 n²Â€bÂ?Y €Â? 8½O}€½Â‘O}b¾¢ ,}b Y8Ă‹ u‘½ ½}b²b 8 ‡€½½Â‡b ‘‡Y ‡8YĂ‹ O8Šb Â‘Ăˆb² to welcome me to the neighborhood. Later, as she was leaving, she said, ÂŹ Ă‹ ½}b É8Ă‹V É}8½ 8²b ˑ¨­ Y€YÂ?¯½ †Â?‘É É}8½ ½Â‘ Âľ8Ă‹¢ ‘½ ½Â‘‘ Š8Â?Ă‹ Â?b‘Â?‡b }8Ăˆb 8¾†bY Šb ½}8½¢ 3}8½ 8Š ¨ We have a mixed-race, mixed-culture president – he’s not black, he’s multiracial. Despite that and everything else, people still think in terms of black or white.

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Generation after generation has to deal with this. Bliss Broyard’s book One Drop (2007) is all about this issue. Her father, who wrote for the New York Times for many years, was Creole but passed as white his entire professional life. She didn’t learn about her family’s black ancestry until she was 24. The book is named after a rule they used to go by in  µ 8 8¢ n Ë Â }8Y b Y² n Ðn² O8 F YV Ë Â Éb²b O µ Yb²bY black. There was no acknowledgement of mixed-race communities or individuals. Creoles were stuck in the middle. CQ: What effect did Katrina have on the Creole community? SK: ½ }²½ 8 ½¢ 8 Ë b b qbY 8n½b² ½}b µ½ ² ¢ 8 Ë }8Èb Ëb½ ½ ²b½Â² ½ bÉ ² b8 µ¢ ,}b O  ½Ë µ µ ²b8Y ½ 8 Èb²¢ (b²µ 8 ËV µ½ bÈb²Ë½} u j b u}½ 8 Y 8 }8 n nbb½ n É8½b² µ½8ËbY µ Yb Ë } µb n ² µ Ê Ébb µ¢ µbY ½ }8Èb u}½ 8²bµ 8F ½ ½¢ New Orleans lost many important historical and cultural documents during Katrina, as well. Some larger institutions – colleges and universi½ bµV µ½ Ë j 8 8ubY ½ µ8Èb ½}b ² 8²O} ÈbµV F½ ½}b²µ Éb²b q YbY¢ Ð ½ n ½} µ µ½Ânn µ ²²b 8Ob8F b¢ ½¯µ }8²Y µ u ½} uµ b ½}8½¢ CQ: Have you written about the experience? SK: ¯Èb ½² bY¢ ¯Èb Ë 8 8ubY b u b µ n8²V 8 Y O8 ¯½ ²b8Y ½ ½ ÂY FbO8µb ub½ ½ b ½ 8 ¢ É ½}8½ ¯ b n ½}b ÂO Ë bµ¢ ½b ˵b nV ¬Ð½ b8µ½ Ë Â¯²b µ½ 8 Èb¢­ ½}b²µ Éb²b ¯½ µ n ²½Ânate.

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K EIT H D UNL AP

In Memoriam n ½ b }8Y 8 b YV É Â Y µ½8Ë É ½} Ë Â É}b ½ O8 b¢ É Â Y } Y Ë Â² µ½ÂFF ² }b8YV е ½}b 8µ½ b Ë ½} Âu}½ n ½ ²b 8 bY¢ É Â Y ²b8Y 8u8 ½ Ë Â ½}b b½½b² That you wrote so long ago 3}b Ë Â Éb²b 8 µ½ÂYb ½ (8² µ Ð Y É8µ Ë Â² n8 ½} bµµ n² b Y¢ The letter in which you described 5 ² µ 8 V µÂ o bY 8 8²½ b ½ Ð Y ½}b µb ½}b Ð b² O8 O  b 8Yb вu u ½}b µ½²bb½ Fb É So that when the end came We would know exactly where we had been, Exactly where we had started, Ð Y bÊ8O½ Ë É}b²b Éb Éb²b ½}b ¢ We could read the last part together ½}b µO bV 8 µ½8 u b½½b²µ Of your handwriting at the bottom of the page Where you had carefully written: µ ½} µ } É bÈb²Ë½} u b Yµ¨

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VAL ERI E SAYER S

The Heat He must have been dying inside. —Lefty Gomez DiMaggio climbs into the back of the taxi and braces for the cabbie’s double-take, but the little, red-faced driver doesn’t blink an eye, not bÈb É}b bÎ 8µ µ n ² ² no½} +½8Y  ¢ “How you fellas like this heat?” 5  nb 8µ¢ µ ½ µµ F b }b Y bµ ¯½ É É} ½}bË 8²b¨ “Tell you what’s really heating up, though. Those Nazis in White Russia, you hear about that?” bÎ u Èbµ 8uu 8 U É}8½ ½}b }b ¯µ 8 3} ½b *µµ 8¨ Ð Y DiMaggio gives him a look back: Jesus God, does this guy really not know what’s on the schedule for today? The war in Europe’s been haunting DiMaggio since just before spring training, when he sat with his pop translating the news out of + O ËV ½ n * b 8 Y (8² µ 8 Y 2 b 8¢ É ½¯µ 3} ½b *µµ 8V F½ he can’t think about White Russia, can’t think about Latvia or Estonia (cities? states? countries?) just because a cabbie’s yammering on. God ɵ }b O8 ¯½ ½} 8F ½ ( ¢ b¯µ ½É u8 bµ 8É8Ë n² ½}b ²bO ²YV and today the Yanks play a double-header with the Senators. Today’s the Y8ËV Ë }b¯µ O FbY ½ 8 }8O É ½} ½}b Ë Y² Èb² ½}b -¢+¢ n Т who doesn’t follow baseball. Well, let Gomez sort it out, one born talker to another. Washington slides by in pools of white light. ½}b O b² ² V b ² O} µ8˵ ½ u}½ ub½  ½ 8 } Y²bY ½ Y8Ë¢ The other Yanks groan, but DiMaggio grins into his coffee. Sweat beads behind his knees and pours out from deep in his groin. This heat wave won’t let up and he doesn’t want it to: the hotter it gets, the hotter his bat. When McCarthy barrels through, looking a little drunk in the steamy O b² ² V }b Y ²bO½µ 8 µ8²O8µ½ O É uu b n } µ n ²bo ub² 8½ ½}b b ½ ²b VA L E R I E S AYE R S

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team—though not, of course, at Joe DiMaggio. “Thirty thousand paying customers waiting for you, boys.” Not a syllable about the streak, but if the manager wants to mention the ticket sales…. McCarthy rallies his troops, DiMaggio lights another Camel. Today’s paper says it’s only the modern day record. This week somebody dug up the niggling bit of news that Wee Willie Keeler hit in forty-four consecutive games in eighteen-ninety-something, when they didn’t even count fouls as strikes. What the hell. Sisler’s record—forty-one—is the one everybody’s been waiting to fall all season long. He’ll deal with that one, and then he’ll deal with Wee Willie Keeler. He woke up every half-hour last night. His gut’s a rusty bucket shot through with holes: Gomez had to call for more toilet paper before he could even leave the bathroom this morning. But now the heat shimmers off the ballpark and a crazy kind of peace shimmers with it. He’s still clenched––every muscle in his body including his culu, and if he lets go of that it’s all over––but now he’s almost ready. He has to go down deep enough to loosen the neck and shoulders. The rest of him will follow. Lefty’s still blathering, waving somebody else’s paper in Henrich’s face: “Jeez Louise, they’re gonna draft a million men.” They don’t come near him. They don’t mention what somebody mentions twelve times a day lately, that Dom DiMaggio has escaped the draft on account of bad eyesight, that his brother can see enough to play major league baseball F½ ½ ½ u ou}½ ½}b 8Î µ 3} ½b *µµ 8¢ ½ µ 8˵ ½}b µ ²½µÉ² ½b²µ and everybody else, but Gomez and Henrich know enough not to bring up Dom’s glasses on this of all days. DiMaggio doesn’t have time for chitchat, not even talk of war and drafts. He sinks down into the heat. ²½Ë oÈb u8 bµ µ 8 Ob ²  Y  Fb²V 8 u Y ²bO ²Y F²b8 u  Fb²V F½ ½¯µ ½ b Âu}¢ b } ½ µ Ê½Ë b u8 bµ µ½²8 u}½ ½}b (8O oO 8µ½ b8uÂb É}b }b É8µ 8 YU ½}8½¯µ ½}b  Fb² }b¯Y ²b8 Ë b ½ O²8O b V } µ É ² b8uÂb ²bO ²Y¢ Ð Y 8½b Ë }b µbbµ 8 ²  Yb² number still, a number farther along the page of numbers facing him bÈb²Ë ½ b }b O µbµ } µ bËbµ¢ +bÈb ½Ë oÈb¢ b¯Y b ½ } ½ µbÈb ½Ë oÈb u8 bµ µ½²8 u}½ 8 Y }b¯Y b ½ 8Ë Y É ½}b µbÈb ½Ë oÈb } ½µ n² ½ n

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J ONAT H A N PAT TIS HALL

No Priests Required HOW TO WRITE A SENTENCE

by Stanley Fish

Harper 176 pages; $19.99 hardcover

,}b ²b µb n +½8 bË µ}¯µ 8½bµ½ F µ YbOb ½ Èb Ë µ bU 8 famous literary theorist picks through a catalogue of his favorite wellO²8n½bY µb ½b ObµV bÊ 8 u É}Ë }b o Yµ ½}b µ O b Y8F b 8 Y how a writer might imitate their forms with reasonable, if unoriginal µÂOObµµ¢ *8 Y Ë q u ½}² Âu} µ}¯µ O} µb µb ½b Obµ iFË +}8 bspeare, Milton and Donne, among others—a reader might assume that the book’s tone were laudatory, and the book itself yet another homage ½ u²b8½ b 8 Y É b n b½½b²µ¢ ,}b o²µ½ b n ½}b b uÂb Y bµ nothing to dispel this assumption: “Of course there are more sentences to celebrate and many more authors to praise.” But this premise is a trick, albeit an illuminating one. Despite the b uÂbV µ} }8µ ¯½ µ½ Fbb É8µ½ u 8ubµ Ob bF²8½ u n8 µ µb ½b ObµV ² ²8 µ u O8 O8 8½} ²µ¢ ÐO½Â8 ËV }b¯µ n½b Y u µ b½} u Èb²Ë Y nnb²b ½¢ Ë n Oµ u ½}b²µ¯ µb ½b ObµV µ} µ µb n O µO µ Ë stripping the writing process of its mystique. His goal is for everyone to be “comfortable with the task of writing,” and his mortal enemy is “obµO² ½ËV­ ½ ɲ ½ u ½µb nV F½ ½}b bÊ 8 8½ n ɲ ½ u¢ в½n prose isn’t just a matter of intuition, but can be rationally dissected, so Éb }8Èb bbY n ² } u} ² bµ½µ n b½½b²µ¢ n8O½V 8µ µ} Yb µ½²8½bµ FË ²bɲ ½ u µ b n } µ n8È ² ½b µb ½b ObµV bÈb²Ë b O8 Y ½¢ ½8½ 8Ë Fb q8½½b²ËV F½ µ b½ bµ ½¯µ 8 µ ½}b µ Ob²bµ½ n ² n YbO µ½²ÂO½ ¢ 3} b µ} 8Ë ²8 µb u²b8½ 8½} ²µ 8 Y ½}b ² µb ½b ObµV ½}b  ½ mate effect of his literary project is leveling. One of the mountains he seeks to level early on is the dual monarchy of William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White, whose writing manifesto, The Elements of StyleV ¬ u 8u 8½½8 bY ½}b µ½8½Âµ n 8 O 8µµ O¢­ µ}¯µ Yb8 uµ

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with this book are complex, sometimes even inconsistent, and lend his text its most interesting problématique. He is clear about what he calls the “nonutility” of The Elements of Style 8µ 8 ½²Âb b8² u ½ ¢ е }b ½µ ½V “Strunk and White’s advice assumes a level of knowledge and understanding only some of their readers will have obtained; the vocabulary they O oYb ½ Ë nnb² µ ½µb n bbY n 8 8 8 ˵ µ 8 Y bÊ 8 8½ ½}bË Y ½ ² È Yb¢­ ²8 ½bYV µ} µ ²bnb²² u ½ ½}b ² ub b²8 8 Y ²b 8½ Èb Ë 8Ocessible prescriptive advice, such as “Do not join independent clauses by a comma,” but his point still stands: Strunk and White want people to write in the most approachable style possible, but do not do so themselves. Though this tension between the two books is very real, it seems µ u oO8 ½ O 8²bY ½ É}8½ µ}  Y Fb 8 ²b Éb²n ½Â8 8½½²8O½ U ½}b Yb uË n µ½Ë bV 8 Y µ bO oO8 Ë ½}b (² ½bµ½8 ½ µ½Ë b¢ ² instance, while analyzing a sentence from George Eliot’s Middlemarch, µ} ½µ ½ ½}8½ ¬ ½ ɲ ½b 8 (² ½bµ½8 ½ ½²8Y ½ ½}8½ ² È leges the interior action of faith over the performance of great deeds.” Ê 8 Y u ½} µ Yb8 ½}b n É u 8²8u²8 }V µ} O8 ¯½ }b F½ write himself into the interpretation, so that Eliot’s “resolution always to be true to an internal code of values” echoes his own earlier claim that the only necessity in writing is to honor an internal “structure of logical ²b 8½ µ} µ¢­ 3}b½}b² n ² ²8 µ ½ ² b8 uµ µ} V ² bµ½µ 8²b ²b§Â ²bY¢ Ð Y } É O  Y ½}bË FbV 8 F FË 8 ½ µO} 8²¨ ½}b b YV ½}b ²8 n µ}¯µ ½b²8²Ë ½}b ²Ë µ bµµb ½ 8 Ë ½ OU }b O8 not praise a fugitive and cloistered sentence. ,} µ (² ½bµ½8 ½ b O}8 ½ µ}¯µ 8²½ 8 bµ b É Yb² É}Ë }b }8µ Y É ²Yµ n ² +½²Â 8 Y 3} ½b¯µ  Yb² Ë u Yb uË¢ Ðn½b² 8 V n ²F YY u ½}b µb n 8  bObµµ8²Ë ²boÊ The Elements of Style, those two opine that “the sober writer will abstain from the use of this É Y 8YY ½ Èb¢­ Ð nbÉ 8ubµ 8½b²V 3} ½b O 8 µ ½}8½ ¬½}b 8 ² 8O} ½ µ½Ë b µ FË É8Ë n 8 bµµV µ O ½ËV ²Yb² bµµV µ Ob² ½Ë¢­ ,}b o²µ½ sentence is nothing but the Baptist response to a Catholic aesthetic; the µbO Y µ 8 b²nbO½ 3bFb² 8 µÂ 8½ n ½}b (² ½bµ½8 ½ ɲ ½ u b½} O¢ ½ µ}V ² 8 Ë µ 8½½Â bY ½ Yb uËV b½µ ½}bµb ½}b²É µb 8 b ²8½ing similarities go unmentioned, and that’s a shame, because they deserve sentences of their own. J O N ATH A N PAT TI S H A L L

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CONTRIBUTORS WINTER /SPRING 2011 | VOL. 61, NO. 1

ALIETTE is a french illustrator and graphic designer. She works with both traditional and digital mediums and loves to use gouache, inks, markers as well as various illustration and graphic software. She likes to depict natural and domestic subjects using a monochrome palette punctuated by elements of colour, to create delicate works which are both wistful and playful. View more of her work at www.aliette.etsy.com. ROBERT BENSE has appeared in many magazines, including Shenandoah, The Sewanee Review, and Salmagundi. His book of poems, Readings in Ordinary TimeV É8Âľ Â?Ă‚F‡€¾}bY FĂ‹ ,}b 8O†É8½b²¾ (²b¾¾¢ NATE BROWN €¾ 8 u²8YĂ‚8½b ‘n ‘²Â?b‡‡ -Â?Â€Ăˆb²¾Â€½Ă‹ 8Â?Y ½}b Ă? Â?²Â‘gram at University of Wisconsin-Madison. He has received fellowships n²Â‘Š ½}b 2b²ÂŠÂ‘Â?½ +½Ă‚Y€‘ bÂ?½b² 8Â?Y ½}b 3€¾O‘Â?¾€Â? Â?¾½Â€½Ă‚½b n‘² ²b8½Â€Ăˆb 3²Â€½Â€Â?u¢ b OĂ‚²²bÂ?½Â‡Ă‹ Â‡Â€ĂˆbÂľ €Â? ‘É8 €½Ă‹V ‘É8¢ DEANNA BENJAMIN ɲ€½bÂľ 8Â?Y ½b8O}bÂľ €Â? +½¢ ‘€¾¢ b² Â?‘Â?oO½Â€Â‘Â? has appeared in Fifth Wednesday Journal and Brevity and her poetry is forthcoming in Status Hat. She graduated from Vermont College of €Â?b Ă?²½¾¢ CHARLIE CLARK studied poetry at the University of Maryland. His work has appeared in Forklift, Oh, The Missouri Review, The Potomac Review, Smartish PaceV 8Â?Y ‘½}b² …‘²Â?8‡¾¢ b Â‡Â€ĂˆbÂľ €Â? Ă?Ă‚¾½Â€Â?V ,bĂŠ8¾¢ DAVID CREWS ²bObÂ€ĂˆbY 8Â? Ă? €Â? Â?‘b½²Ă‹ n²Â‘Š ²bÉ -Â?Â€Ăˆb²¾Â€½Ă‹V 8Â?Y both teaches and lives in New Jersey. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Greensboro Review, Paterson Literary Review, Edison Literary Review, Tar River Poetry, The New Guard, and others. €¾ Â?‘Â?oO½Â€Â‘Â? O8Â? Fb n‘ÂÂ?Y €Â? The Adirondack Review. Most recently, }b É8Âľ 8Â? }‘Â?‘²8F‡b ŠbÂ?½Â€Â‘Â? €Â? ½}b Ă Ă?˜Ă? Ă?‡‡bÂ? €Â?ÂľFb²u (‘b½²Ă‹ Ă?É8²YÂľ 8Â?Y 8 oÂ?8‡€¾½ n‘² ½}b Ă Ă?˜˜ Â?€u}½ĂˆÂ€Â‡Â‡b (‘b½²Ă‹ (²Â€ĂŽb¢

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PAMELA DIFRANCESCO (8 b 8 ²8 ObµO µ½ÂY bY ɲ ½ u 8½ ÂÎb² b  ½Ë  ½Ë bub (b µË È8 8 8 Y bÉ +O} University in New York City. Her work can also be found online at CezannesCarrot.org KEITH DUNLAP Èbµ ( ²½ 8 YV 8 bV É ½} } µ É nbV ½}b Èb µ½ b Ë + b²V 8 Y } µ Y8Âu}½b²V 2 È O8¢ ½}b 8µ½ Ëb8²V } µ b µ }8Èb 8 peared in Sou’Wester, The Borderlands, and the Concho River Review. b ²bOb ÈbY } µ Ð n² ½}b - Èb²µ ½Ë n ½8 8¢ MATTHEW HAMITY µ 8 u²8YÂ8½b n  F 8 - Èb²µ ½Ë¯µ Ð ² u²8 ¢ µ oO½ }8µ 8 b8²bY Conjunctions, Prism International, Opium, Heeb, Knock, and Our Stories. JANIS BUTLER HOLM Èbµ н}b µV } V É}b²b µ}b }8µ µb²ÈbY 8µ еµ O 8½b Y ½ ² n ² Wide AngleV ½}b o ² 8 ¢ b² bµµ8˵V µ½ ² bµV poems, and performance pieces have appeared in small-press, notional, and international magazines. Her plays have been produced in the U.S., Canada, and England. THOMAS HORAN is a writer, photographer, and illustrator living in Saint Louis, Missouri. He has earned degrees in both English Litera½Â²b 8 Y ²b8½ Èb 3² ½ u n² + ½}b² µ - Èb²µ ½Ë 8²F Y8 b 8 Y µ O²²b ½ Ë Â²µÂ u } µ Ð ²b8½ Èb 3² ½ u 8½ Yb É Y University in Saint Charles, Missouri. His work has appeared in diverse publications in the US and the UK, including Matrix, Nightlife, Midwestern Gothic, Crab Orchard Review, CC&D, and Kerouac’s Dog. µ µ½ ²ËV ¬ ÈËV­ É8µ } ²bY É ½} ½}b ÁÏÏp 8 bµ bµ ÐÉ8²Y n ² +} ²½ O½ ¢ CHARLES MANIS É8µ F ² 8 Y ²8 µbY Ob ½²8 (b µË È8 8V F½ }b µ O²²b ½ Ë 8 µ½ÂYb ½ 8½ ² Y8 +½8½b - Èb²µ ½Ë ,8 8}8µµbb É}b²b }b µ ²µÂ u } µ Ð ²b8½ Èb 3² ½ u¢ µ O²²b ½ ² bO½µ 8²b informed by the tensions of human interaction—particularly in contem ²8²Ë ²Â²8 Ð b² O8 O  ½ bµi8 Y ½}b bÈb²ËY8Ë bÊ b² b Obµ n living with (or as) a human body.

CO N TR I B U TO R S

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ZACKARY MEDLIN was born and raised in Greenville, SC. He currently Â‡Â€ĂˆbÂľ €Â? 8€²F8Â?†¾V Ă? 8Â?Y €¾ 8 Ă? O8Â?Y€Y8½b 8½ ½}b -Â?Â€Ăˆb²¾Â€½Ă‹ ‘n Ă?‡8¾†8 8€²F8Â?†¾¢ WILMER MILLS is the Nick Barker Writer-in Residence at Covenant College. Before that he served for two years as the Kenan Visiting Writer 8½ ,}b -Â?Â€Ăˆb²¾Â€½Ă‹ ‘n ‘²½} 8²Â‘‡€Â?8 8½ }8Â?b‡ €‡‡¢ €¾ o²¾½ n‡‡ ‡bÂ?u½} collection of poems, Light for the Orphans, was published by Story €Â?b (²b¾¾ €Â? Ă Ă?Ă?à ¢ b }8Âľ Â?Ă‚F‡€¾}bY Â?‘bŠ¾ €Â? The New Republic, The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Poetry, The New Criterion, Shenandoah, Literary Imagination, and others. His poems have been 8Â?½}‘‡‘u€ÎbY €Â? (bÂ?u€Â?Âş ‘Â?uŠ8Â? Anthology of Contemporary American Poets, 2004, The Swallow Anthology of New American Poets, Ă Ă?Ă?ÂŽV 8Â?Y 8²b n‘²½}O‘Š€Â?u €Â? 8Â? 8Â?½}‘‡‘uĂ‹ n²Â‘Š Ă?Â?ĂˆÂ€Â‡ (‘b½²Ă‹ (²b¾¾ €Â? ½}b - ‘n ¾€Ê Ă?Šb²Â€O8Â? Â?‘b½¾¢ NANCY CAROL MOODY lives in Eugene, Oregon where she is at work on a new manuscript, title Zorse. Her work has appeared in Poetry Northwestern, The New York Quarterly, Bellevue Literary Review, and ,}b 8O Ă‚noÂ?. Her collection, Photograph With Girls, was published in 2009 by Traprock Books. MICHAEL MORICAL is a freelance editor. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including The New York Quarterly, The Pedestal Magazine, and The Hardy Review. Sharing Soliaire, Â?Ă‚F‡€¾}bY FĂ‹ €Â?€¾}€Â?u €Â?b (²b¾¾ €¾ }€¾ o²¾½ O}8Â?F‘‘†¢ AMANDA MULLEE was born in Houston, Texas. She currently lives in Ă?Ă‚¾½Â€Â?V É}b²b Âľ}b ²bObÂ€ĂˆbY 8 Ă? €Â? +½Ă‚Y€‘ Ă?²½ ɀ½} €u}b¾½ ‘Â?‘²¾ from the University of Texas in 2006. Her work has appeared in the Texas Observer. VALERIE SAYERS is the author of six novels including the forthcoming Brain Fever and The Powers¢ Ă? (²Â‘nb¾¾Â‘² ‘n Â?u‡€¾} 8½ ‘½²b 8ŠbV }b² ‡€½b²8²Ă‹ }‘Â?‘²¾ €Â?O‡ÂYb 8Â? Ă? 8Â?Y 8 (Ă‚Âľ}O8²½ (²Â€ĂŽb 8‡‘Â?u ɀ½} ÂŹ ‘tableâ€? and “Distinguishedâ€? citations from The New York Times, Best American Short Stories, and Best American Essays.

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JOAN I SIEGEL is author of Hyacinth for the Soul (Deerrbrook Editions) and co-author of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). Recipient of the New Letters ( b½²Ë (² Îb 8 Y ½}b Ð 8 8È Yµ * µb Fb²u ÐÉ8²YV µ}b }8µ ÂF µ}bY b½²Ë The Atlantic Monthly, The American Scholar, Commonweal ,The Gettysburg Review, Prairie Schooner among other journals and anthologies. GEORGE SINGLETON has published four collections, two novels, and a book of advice. His stories have appeared in Atlantic Monthly, Georgia Review, Playboy, and a number of New Stories from the South anthologies. His new collection, Stray Decorum, will appear from Dzanc ÁÏ ¾¢ b Èbµ 8OÂµÈ bV + 8 Y ½b8O}bµ oO½ ɲ ½ u 8½ ½}b +¢ ¢ Èb² ²¯µ +O} n ² ½}b в½µ¢ b µ ½}b ²bO b ½ n ½}b µY8 b ÐÉ8²Y n² ½}b b ɵ} n + ½}b² 3² ½b²µ ÁÏ 8 Y 8 Âuub heim fellowship (2009). JENNIFER STOCKDALE µ 8 Ð O8 Y Y8½b 8½ ½}b - Èb²µ ½Ë n ½²b Dame. Her work has appeared in alice blue, Salt Hill, Hot Metal, Bridge, and elsewhere. She recently published a small chapbook, Kid Fingers, É ½} 3}bb O}8 ² (8²½Ë (²bµµ 8 Y 8 ½}b² µ n ²½}O u n² 3}8½ ½ -µ (²bµµ ¢ ZACKARY VERNON µ 8 (} O8 Y Y8½b u µ} 8 Y 8²8½ Èb Literature at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he 8 µ ½b8O}bµ Ð b² O8 ½b²8½Â²b 8 Y ²µ½ 5b8² µ ½ ¢ 2b² µ½ÂY bµ ÁϽ} 8 Y Á µ½ Ob ½Â²Ë Ð b² O8 ½b²8½Â²bV 8 Y }b µ O²²b ½ Ë working on a dissertation that explores issues of ecocriticism and eco½b²² ² µ ¹Ïµ 8 Y ¸Ïµ Ð b² O8 ½b²8½Â²b 8 Y O b 8¢

CO N TR I B U TO R S

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P O E T RY

| F I C T I O N | E S S AY S | R E V I E W S

Q U A R T E R LY P A T R O N S FACULT Y D ONORS

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SP ONSORS

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Hunter C. Bourne Connie Eble

}² µ½ b ? µb } ²8 Jack W.C. Hagsrrom Kimball King Melissa Ross Matron O}8b O bb Regina Oliver Ð 8²Ë + µ ? 8 Y + µ

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F RIENDS

8²b Ob ¢ ÐÈb²Ë Michael Chitwood William Nelson Davis Marianne Gingher Ð Ë Ð¢ b8 bË Ð µ µb } George Lensing Jim McQuaid Jack Raper Robert Shaw Jeffery L. Williams

M E M B E RS Mary Lou Miller Michael Shilling Nancy C. Wooten ² µ Ob²b ½}8 µ u 8 µ ½ ½}b noOb n ½}b (² È µ½ 8 Y 2 Ob }8 Ob ² n ² ÐO8Yb O Ðnn8 ²µV 8² 8 b8Yb²µ} bÈb b ½V ½}b  ¯µ b8Y µ} V ½}b ²u8 8 Ë 3² ½b² *bµ Yb Ob (² u²8 V ½}b - }8 b ²b8½ Èb 3² ½ u (² u²8 V ½}b - }8 b u µ} b 8²½ b ½V ½}b +½ÂYb ½ nb }8 Ob b ½  Y ½}b - }8 b +½ÂYb ½ Ðnn8 ²µ noObV 8 Y ½}b - }8 b в½µ 8 Y +O b Obµ n ² 8½ Service. 8²½ O 8² Éb É µ} ½ ½}8 ²bY Fµ 8 Y (8 ²F8 n ² ½}b ² ub b² µ µÂ ²½ n ² 8u8Î bV 8µ Éb 8µ ½}b *b}Yb²º b½½µ  Y ½}b - ²b8½ Èb 3² ½ u (² u²8 ¢ PAT RO N S

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15,000 in Awards

$

21s t Annual Je ffrey E. Smith

5 000 Fiction $5,000 Poetry $5,000 Essay

$ ,

The Missouri Review is now accepting submissions for the 21st Annual Jeffrey E. Smith Editors’ Prize competition. In addition to the $15,000 awarded to the first place winners, three finalists in each category receive cash awards and are considered for publication. Past winners have been reprinted in the Best American series. Page Restrictions

Fiction and nonfiction entries should not exceed 25 typed, double-spaced pages. Poetry entries can include any number of poems up to 10 pages in total. Each story, essay, or group of poems constitutes one entry. Entry Fee

$20 for each entry (checks made payable to The Missouri Review). Each fee includes a one-year subscription (digital or print!) to TMR. Please enclose a complete e-mail and mailing address. Entry Instructions

Include the printable contest entry form (available online). On the first page of each submission, include author’s name, address, e-mail and telephone number. Entries must be previously unpublished and will not be returned. Mark the outside of the envelope “Fiction,” “Essay,” or “Poetry.” Each entry in a separate category must be mailed in a separate envelope. Enclose a #10 SASE or e-mail address for an announcement of winners. Go Green: Enter Online!

We are also accepting electronic submissions. For details, go to www. missourireview.com/contest Mailing Address

Missouri Review Editors’ Prize 357 McReynolds Hall University of Missouri Columbia, MO 65211

Postmark Deadline October 1, 2011



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