Slave Boy   We run as if an agitated earth were breaking up behind us, and we fight to gain our stations at the gritty trough half-filled with corn, where each survivor’s worth is daily measured by another’s right to fair apportionment denied; and off our makeshift plates of muddied, calloused hands ensues a squealing…

This content is for Basic Member, Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, and Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription members.
Log In Register
Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud
%d bloggers like this: