Magness Lake, in Heber Springs, is a magnet for swans
Jo McDougall, born and raised near DeWitt and now based in Little Rock, has published six acclaimed poetry collections, many of them navigating the milieus of the Arkansas Delta. Her work has appeared in the Kenyon Review, the Hudson Review and the Georgia Review, and she's the recipient of a Porter Prize. Her work has been adapted into short films, stage presentations and song cycles, and she is also the author of a memoir, "Daddy's Money: A Memoir of Farm and Family." Her new collection, "The Undiscovered Room," ranges from meditations on loss (personal and regional) to prismatic meditations on artists like Flannery O'Connor and Lucinda Williams.
ALONE AT FLANNERY O'CONNOR'S GRAVE ON A NIGHT IN APRIL, A WOMAN HEARS A VOICE
You there — stand back.
If the wind's right, I probably smell,
even after all these years.
Don't give me that simpering look.
You think I made my single bed and every day sat down
to those mad voices in my head
so you could come around and gawk?
Go away. And take
that maudlin moonlight with you.
Those whippoorwills, too,
sing-sawing like blind men
on their way to the john.
These coins on my grave —
somebody figures how
I'm running out of money here?
Get them out of my sight.
And one more thing —
I'm not hankering to see you,
but if you do come back,
bring a sign for the foot of my grave:
Make sure you get the spelling right.
HER HUSBAND AWAY ON A BUSINESS TRIP, SHE TAKES THE OLD PONTIAC IN FOR REPAIRS
The young service manager
comes round to explain,
as if someone were dying,
what will have to be done. "It's more,"
he says, "than we thought."
I want to tell him it's all right,
I've heard worse;
we're all orphans here.
Live long enough,
you might as well be a spider
in a corner of the basement,
year in, year out,
But I like this young man
trying to help me understand
that the car is on its last breath.
"Another hour or so, Ma'am,"
he says. "I'm sorry for the wait."
It's all right; I'll be home soon,
perhaps to find you unpacking,
the cat murmuring to himself
like a contented chicken, the radio
waffling through its noise, the replenished Pontiac
exhaling slowly in the drive.
AT THE WORKING-CLASS HERO, LUCINDA WILLIAMS GETS HER START
The cafe's screen door slammed
after each customer and every dog
in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Her props:
cigarette smoke and a beat-up guitar.
Seventeen — eighteen, maybe — she wandered among us,
her voice fetching and uneasy,
singing for dollars and nickels
as I passed the hat.
In that camouflage of grease and smoke,
we waited for our futures —
safe, we thought,
the screen door between us
and the trolling dark.
WATCHING 'CASABLANCA' IN ARKADELPHIA, ARKANSAS
It's 3 a.m.
Fog permeates Casablanca
as fog floats above the Ouachita,
the river this town lies ragtag along.
Those flimmering creatures on the screen are dead,
the town at this hour is dead,
the vapor of that river rises
to touch my feet.
Now the early morning train
clangoring through Arkadelphia
I stumble toward my coat and my valise.
I must be gone
before the Germans,
the closed borders,
the informant sun.
O Ingrid, Humphrey, Sydney, Paul,
shadows on the banks of my life,
I point the remote and exile you all
I had heard of Hemingway's time in Piggott, Arkansas —
a studio in a barn, a famous manuscript.
Now, invited to these grounds,
I enter the studio.
November niggles the grass, the trees
as Hemingway stands at his typewriter, his back to me,
papers scattered like lilies across a pond.
As he walks toward a wall
where the heads of animals have come to die again,
one, an impala, finds the rest of its body and slips it on,
kicking the studio into a maelstrom of dust
that moves like a gasp to slather Piggott,
erasing the town square
and the last evening train.
The next morning, I ask around.
No one has noticed an impala on the loose
or extra dust. Folks ply the square idly and complain
of the train last night splitting their sleep as usual,
the lunch special at Donna's, the threat of rain.
I make my way to the studio. The windows are there,
the door, the roof.
An old lion in a stutter of sun, it sits
glinting and implacable.
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