Attraction

By ROSE McLARNEY  

 

The mansion where Gone with the Wind was written sits up on blocks
like a trailer, underpinnings exposed, like a trailer, trucked down a road,
relocated from one county to another that also can’t afford its restoration,
a green curtain of vines drawing over the decay. What should stay?

Trailers will not biodegrade (though they depreciate), are left standing
in place, the older ones with the new, accruing, spreading like the pines over
the soil too exploited for any more cotton. Slash pines, trashy trees,
you could call them. At least these are not plantations as they once were.

And skirts cover trailers’ plumbing. Are they the structures with ugly
foundations now? On the first property a family was allowed to own,
the original trailer is circled by generations to follow, in growth rings
of vinyl siding. It’s a sight. To come to see. This, as scenery.

Rose McLarney‘s collections of poems are Forage and Its Day Being Gone, winner of the National Poetry Series prize, and The Always Broken Plates of Mountains. She is co-editor of A Literary Field Guide to Southern Appalachia. Rose has been awarded fellowships by the MacDowell Colony and the Bread Loaf and Sewanee Writers’ Conferences, among others. She earned her MFA from Warren Wilson College’s MFA Program for Writers. Currently, she is associate professor of creative writing at Auburn University and co-editor-in-chief of the Southern Humanities Review.

[Purchase Issue 20 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Attraction

Related Posts

Paintings Christina's World and Wind from the Sea by Andrew Wyeth

December 2025, Online Poetry Feature #1

RODRIGO TOSCANO
From the rooftop I memorize his eyes, / gold and green like a dying leaf. I kiss / his kite with mine before cutting the string. // I meet aunts, uncles, cousins, cousin’s kids, dad’s cousins / singing songs about a honeyed sleep / nights before my sister’s wedding.

A window on the side of a white building in Temple, New Hampshire

Dispatches from Søgne, Ditmas Park, and Temple

JULIA TORO
Sitting around the white painted wood and metal table / that hosted the best dinners of my childhood / my uncle is sharing / his many theories of the world / the complexities of his thoughts are / reserved for Norwegian, with some words here and there / to keep his English-speaking audience engaged

November 2025 Poetry Feature: My Wallonia: Welcoming Dylan Carpenter

DYLAN CARPENTER
I have heard the symptoms play upon world’s corroded lyre, / Pictured my Wallonia and seen the waterfall afire. // I have seen us pitifully surrender, one by one, the Wish, / Frowning at a technocrat who stammers—Hör auf, ich warne dich! // Footless footmen, goatless goatherds, songless sirens, to the last, Privately remark—