By Audre Lorde
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It used to be larger than a lodge, this nameless room on a secluded aspect highway of a small state city. No check in to signal, no questions requested, and for 5 dollars a guy can have 3 hours of undisturbed, illicit lovemaking. Then one night a guy with a knife grew to become the affection nest right into a loss of life chamber.
The belief to the mystical Ebenezum trilogy. "Gardener skewers the entire cliches of quest-fantasy with wit, type, mordant irony and nice glee-this sequence might have been serialized in nationwide Lampoon or filmed by means of one of many Pythons! " (Spider Robinson)
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Extra resources for Zami: A New Spelling of My Name; Sister Outsider; Undersong: Chosen Poems Old and New
I never caught cold, but "got co-hum, co-hum," and then everything turned "cro-bo-so," topsy-turvy, or at least, a bit askew. I am a reflection of my mother's secret poetry as well as of her hidden angers. Sitting between my mother's spread legs, her strong knees gripping my shoulders tightly like some well-attended drum, my head in her lap, while she brushed and combed and oiled and braided. I feel my mother's strong, rough hands all up in my unruly hair, while I'm squirming around on a low stool or on a Audre Lorde 33 folded towel on the floor, my rebellious shoulders hunched and jerking against the inexorable sharp-toothed comb.
Meat and butter could not be hoarded, and throughout the early war, my mother's absolute refusal to accept butter substitutes (only "other people" used margarine, those same "other people" who fed their children peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, used sandwich spread instead of mayonnaise and ate pork chops and watermelon) had us on line in front of supermarkets all over the city on bitterly cold Saturday mornings, Audre Lorde 21 waiting for the store to open so we each could get first crack at buying our allotted quarter-pound of unrationed butter.
Sometimes I dabbed the figures on either side of the head behind the ears as I had seen my mother do with her glycerine and rosewater when she got dressed to go out. I loved the way the rich, dark brown vanilla scented the flour-clay; it reminded me of my mother's hands when she made peanut brittle and eggnog at holidays. But most of all, I loved the live color it would bring to the pasty-white clay. I knew for sure that real live people came in many different shades of beige and brown and cream and reddish tan, but nobody alive ever came in that pasty-white shade of flour and salt and water, even if they were called white.