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Bianca Lynne Spriggs

Years: 2006, 2007, 2010


Bianca Spriggs, is a multidisciplinary artist who lives and works in Lexington, Kentucky. Currently a doctoral student at the University of Kentucky, she holds degrees from Transylvania University and the University of Wisconsin. Named as one of the Top 30 Performance Poets by, Bianca is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and a recipient of  multiple Artist Enrichment Grants and an Arts Meets Activism Grant from the Kentucky Foundation for Women. In partnership with the Kentucky Domestic Violence Association, she is the creator of "The Swallowtail Project" a creative writing workshop dedicated to the women inmates at the Federal Prison Camp, and the creator and Artistic Director of the Gypsy Poetry Slam featured annually at the Kentucky Women Writers Conference. 


Heralded as “the new standard bearer for the Affrilachian Poets” by founding member, Frank X Walker, Bianca Spriggs is the author of Kaffir Lily (Wind Publications), How Swallowtails Become Dragons (Accents Publishing), and her work may also be found in the anthologies, New Growth: Recent Kentucky Writings, America! What's My Name? and the journals, Union Station Magazine, Tidal Basin Review, Muzzle, Caduceus, Alehouse, Reverie, Appalachian Heritage Magazine, and others. Bianca currently serves on the editorial board for ninepatch, TORCH: poetry, prose, and short stories by African American Women, and is the Managing Editor for pluck! The Affrilachian Journal of Art and Culture.
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ALCHEMISTThe woman next door says she don’t have to ask if it was me or him rearranging the furniture last night. Don’t take that much to grow a man the way you want him. She tells me how all a woman had to do to snag her the right manor cure one from being a terror,was to scare up some nightshade.She says it used to be simpler when the world was simpler.Used to be in the South, you could find it just about anywhere on account of how liberal the law was with hanging men. You’d look for the mandrake right wherehe’d been hung and spasmed the last of his seed into the earth. But, she doesn’t say, spasmed his seed. She says something else which means having an orgasm as you die. You had to harvest the plant before dawn on a Friday and you’d sometimes get a four-foot root already bulging into a homunculus.But she doesn’t say, homunculus. She uses a racial slur. Then it’d want feeding.Goat’s milk. Honey. Dried mushroom. Blood from a fresh cut. Eventually that little thing would cometo life, start moving around, wail like an infant if it didn’t have its food. When it got adolescent-old you’d slit its throatrootbecause it’s just a plant after all. Dry it out. Grind it down. Serve it in tea to the man you’re wanting to do right and that was that. What do you do now, I want to know, if you don’t have a mandrake? She says, Find someone who do.I know where a whole mess of ‘em grow.