Jim Zola

Jim Zola

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When My Son Asks Where We Are From

From where broomcorn grows, grass to sweep Mother Lee’s shaking under the bluestone, under the trickling sluice of Groot’s Creek. We are believers who toss mud bombs into the murk of Lock Seven, ride home with dead cats slung over our handlebars. We are from spoon-food they make of our bodies. We are from there and forever and leaving.

Photo Credit: Staff
Laura Cherry

Laura Cherry

Judith Terzi

Judith Terzi