"

POETRY

What is dreaming if not a craft,

made magic by an ageless artisan of hope? Arnis outstretched to gather, separating

finer strands of forgotten time;

she holds memory in the touch of her hand.

But no sooner birthed was she bound.

Slowly, evenly muted with each stroke of lacy shroud Wrapped tighter at each vague stir-

Yet, if she pulls a thread and unravelling it,

quietly lights her way back 10, the ruins of an older destiny; and if she glimpses spirits still stirring in a lost world,

she will set again to spinning the faces of the moon,

-Lavelle

:

after the bars and the gates und the degradation what is left?

after the lock ins and the lock outs and the lock ups what is left?

i mean, after the chains that get entangled in the grey of one's matter

after the burs that get stuck in the hearts of

men and women

what is left?

after the tears and disappointments

after the lonely isolation

after the cut wrist and the heavy noase

what is left?

i mean, like, after the commissary kisses

and the get-your-shit-off-blues

after the hustler has been hustled what is left?

after the sad futile maneuvers

after the shrilf and barren laughter

WHAT IS LEFT?

after the contraband emotions what is left?

after the murderburgers and the goon squads and the tear gas

after the bulls and the hullpens and the bullshit what is left?

i mean like, after you know that god can't be trusted after you know that the shrink is a pusher

that the word is a whip, and the badge is a bullet what is left?

after you know that the dead are still walking

ufter you realize that silence is talking

that outside and inside are just an illusion what is left?

i mean like, where is the sun?

where are her arms and where are her kisses?

there are lip prints on my pillow

i am searching

what is left?

i mean, like, nothing is standstill and nothing is abstract

the wing of a butterfly can't take flight the foot on my neck is part of a body the song that i sing is part of an echo what is left?

i mean like, love is specific

is my mind a machine gun?

is my heart a hacksaw?

can i make freedom real? yeah,

what is left?

i am at the top and bottom of a lower-árchy

i am in love with lasers and laughter

i am in love with freedom and children love is my sword and truth is my compass what is left?

-Assata Shakur

$4

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Page 10/What She Wants/December, 1979

"

A Gentle Madness

What is it that you have woman?

A solemn exuberance in a sly smile

or a patient sigh.

A deep blue-eyed calm

impregnated with potential

explosions of laughter.

A witch's wisdom

in a baby's face.

I see it froth at the surface

like carbonated wine.

It makes me light-hearted

with a gentle madness.

To you, stateliness and pomp

are a frightful bore,

a vain pretense.

Your quiet effervescence

mocks them both.

Yours is a truer dignity.

How do you come to be

a creature of such contrary things,

Oh magic witchy woman?

-Theresa Paulfranz

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