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Margaret Robison


Family Outing

Sunday afternoons my Father drove us down the highway in the old blue Dodge. He always sang. We passed the slaughterhouse and pinewoods, the Bloody Bucket nightclub and its neon sign and crossed the red Ochlocknee River. "My head is splitting," Mothe [...]

This Place

Its oaks and sycamores, a geography unmarked by county lines . . . Noon. Steam rises from the road, rainwater wet. The odor of pickle brine is heavy in the air, the dark wood vats, pickles and cobwebs floating . . . Across the road the old ce [...]


Rattlesnakes sleep in the bamboo hedge in our backyard. No one goes near except my brother. He cuts a thick green reed and lays it in the sun. It bakes hard to a light wood color. Sometimes we've carved whistles from the reeds. My brother strings thi [...]