Todays poet, Ann Deagon, has been writing mostly songs for a while now, but for several decades she produced some of the finest poems to come out of NC. Moving North The Brown Recluse, also known as the Hermit Fiddler, a spider whose bite produces a gangrenous sore, is apparently spreading northward. From its original home in the Southwest it has now migrated as far as North Carolina. Not it. She. The one with eggs. Demographer with the future in her belly, moving up in the world. Texas rots dry, Louisiana wet. Twenty years in Alabama: closets, drawers, silver chests, the backs of portraits cottoned with eggs and everywhere the sweet festering scent. In Tennessee she homed into the woodpile, roughed it, budded the boards with eggs. Now here holed up in my ornamental block she babysits a quiet contagion. Lady, I know your bite. I am myself something of a recluse and given to wearing brown. My Odyssey— no, my Penelopeid up the dry shins of girlhood to the wetter parts was not unlike your own. We are heading both of us north. The cold, I hear, is shriveling, the cold bites back. Even in this lush midway state I feel a touch of gangrene on my hither leg, some deadlier hermit fiddling in my brain.
Posted on: Wed, 23 Apr 2014 10:54:46 +0000
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