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Leaving the Hills

Leaving the Hills Mark DeFoe Appalachian Heritage, Volume 21, Number 4, Fall 1993, p. 25 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1993.0006 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436008/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:19 GMT from JHU Libraries Leaving the Hills She's shedding self like a snake skin, sculpting her makeup for new nights, bound for where habits run shallow, where dreams don't hang limp in her closet. She's flying the hollow, larking for a land too wide for whispers, where no kin is kin. Where the terms "roof fall," "knocked up," or "covered dish" are discouraging words. This land wants to drape her in wren song, catch her ankles in chicory, cloud her with cool fog. Autumn might dazzle with homey gold. Summer might drug with cricket song. Oh, no. She loads her red Cámaro with quilts to pawn. She chooses gritty March, early, when light spares nothing, when her fear of leaving is a copperhead fear, but not as deadly as the bile that comes when she thinks of staying. As she flashes by the high school, she shoots her memories the bird and then feels ashamed. She recalls that night in Kevin Holt's http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Leaving the Hills

DeFoe, Mark.
Appalachian Review , Volume 21 (4) – Jan 8, 2014
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University of North Carolina Press
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Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
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2692-9287

Abstract

Mark DeFoe Appalachian Heritage, Volume 21, Number 4, Fall 1993, p. 25 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1993.0006 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436008/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:19 GMT from JHU Libraries Leaving the Hills She's shedding self like a snake skin, sculpting her makeup for new nights, bound for where habits run shallow, where dreams don't hang limp in her closet. She's flying the hollow, larking for a land too wide for whispers, where no kin is kin. Where the terms "roof fall," "knocked up," or "covered dish" are discouraging words. This land wants to drape her in wren song, catch her ankles in chicory, cloud her with cool fog. Autumn might dazzle with homey gold. Summer might drug with cricket song. Oh, no. She loads her red Cámaro with quilts to pawn. She chooses gritty March, early, when light spares nothing, when her fear of leaving is a copperhead fear, but not as deadly as the bile that comes when she thinks of staying. As she flashes by the high school, she shoots her memories the bird and then feels ashamed. She recalls that night in Kevin Holt's

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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