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Saturday: Rolling Home to WV

Saturday: Rolling Home to WV Lolling breast and bony hip mountains and the road snaking past this woman gumming Hagen, waving home her nephew hauling ass with Jersey garbage. Blue TVs in gristly towns, Indian scalped towns, deer poacher towns. Fog swirling the hilltop stones of God's Lambs. Over all, hound-wailing moon, like a power-pocked old low-coal miner. Somewhere a man beats his wife, then caresses with the stumps of lost fingers. Cannon crack of backing pipes. Truckers with one foot on the asphalt. Dark crawls beneath hemlocks, black as wheezing lungs, black as a backseat in the Moose Club lot where the majorette squeals. At Foodworld, brides slap brats, whining for sugar. Outside, on a fender, their honeys drawl news of layoffs. They speak in a lean tongue, as sprung as the shocks on their pick-em-ups. I pass the state line sign. Damn truth, some here know ugly, wouldn't know "wonderful" if Vanna spelled it in Lotto tickets. Here's to "wild" then, to that expurgated word. To shoot-and-yell-shit Saturday night, Patsy and Roy night, bloody-knuckle night, night for hillbilly dopeheads to harvest a toke of happy. Slip-sliding toward home, air sweet with rain, aching with love calls of crickets. Doe and fawn glide, eyes gold, then silver, elegant ghosts. Whippoorwill's call echoes over the ridge. How I love this God-forsaken place. Lord, it's so good to be back home again. --Mark Defoe http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Saturday: Rolling Home to WV

DeFoe, Mark.
Appalachian Review , Volume 23 (3) – Jan 8, 1995
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Lolling breast and bony hip mountains and the road snaking past this woman gumming Hagen, waving home her nephew hauling ass with Jersey garbage. Blue TVs in gristly towns, Indian scalped towns, deer poacher towns. Fog swirling the hilltop stones of God's Lambs. Over all, hound-wailing moon, like a power-pocked old low-coal miner. Somewhere a man beats his wife, then caresses with the stumps of lost fingers. Cannon crack of backing pipes. Truckers with one foot on the asphalt. Dark crawls beneath hemlocks, black as wheezing lungs, black as a backseat in the Moose Club lot where the majorette squeals. At Foodworld, brides slap brats, whining for sugar. Outside, on a fender, their honeys drawl news of layoffs. They speak in a lean tongue, as sprung as the shocks on their pick-em-ups. I pass the state line sign. Damn truth, some here know ugly, wouldn't know "wonderful" if Vanna spelled it in Lotto tickets. Here's to "wild" then, to that expurgated word. To shoot-and-yell-shit Saturday night, Patsy and Roy night, bloody-knuckle night, night for hillbilly dopeheads to harvest a toke of happy. Slip-sliding toward home, air sweet with rain, aching with love calls of crickets. Doe and fawn glide, eyes gold, then silver, elegant ghosts. Whippoorwill's call echoes over the ridge. How I love this God-forsaken place. Lord, it's so good to be back home again. --Mark Defoe

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1995

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