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Earl C. Pike lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He has published poetry and fiction locally and nationally, and is currently Outreach Educator with the Minnesota AIDS Project.
One of the more shocking things about Vietnam is the number of people with serious war-related injuries: a woman with her face half burned away, men without legs, children with significant birth defects due to fetal exposure to Agent Orange, which remained in the food chain long after the fighting had stopped. Yesterday I counted seven people. Today I counted four more.
October 1995There was no irrefutable justification for a sentence of genocide. But that was the verdict.
April 1994My keeper hurled me into the hole, and jumped in after me. She pulled the floorboards back into place, over our heads, and we were engulfed in darkness as the hammering against the front door started. I tried to call out, but her thick arm snaked around my chest, and her calloused palm clamped over my mouth, as the sound of wood splintering, and then crashing, exploded all around us.
July 1991I write that name with hesitation, the pause that accompanies reverence. One does not scribble the name of the Creator casually. One does not toss about the title of the Segmented Deity without a shuddering respect.
June 1991Yessssss: and every snake must slough its skin, leaving a trail of cellular clothing around the forest, or, as it were, this garden.
April 1988Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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