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Too Late, My Mother Tells MeAuthor(s): Constance MerrittSource: Callaloo, Vol. 23, No. 1, Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender: Literature and Culture(Winter, 2000), p. 44Published by: The Johns Hopkins University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3299513 .
Accessed: 10/06/2014 01:56
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This content downloaded from 195.34.78.11 on Tue, 10 Jun 2014 01:56:06 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
TOO LATE, MY MOTHER TELLS ME
by Constance Merritt
Those deep lines on your forehead come From frowning up and reading all the time; But for them you still look young.
Your night- Time sleep is your life and strength; You lose your best rest sleeping in the day. And anyway, if, like you say, There's no money in it, I wouldn't waste
My time; the book I write will sell. Best thing, you come on home.
The people I come from have always known Books and what-not run some people crazy, That the mind's a dangerous thing best left alone, Like blues for some, like sex, like heroin.
Callaloo 23.1 (2000) 44
This content downloaded from 195.34.78.11 on Tue, 10 Jun 2014 01:56:06 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions