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

October 2026 Poetry Feature: David Barber and David Lehman

DAVID BARBER
Sometimes a marvel of meteorology, the makings of a hypothesis. / Sometimes historical, sometimes supernatural, sometimes hearsay – / Sometimes a little bird tells someone it’s raining sprats on the isthmus. / Not just fish – sometimes showers of frogs, the odd lizard or elver.

Two Poems by Dalia Taha, translated by Sara Elkamel

DALIA TAHA
All we own are our lips / and the pupils of our eyes—the car / will plow into all of this. / And still, life is far too complex / for words like victory or defeat. // Life is Salma on the balcony / moving plants to bigger pots, in her eyes / the settlement’s lights. 

Headshot of Brionne Janae

September 2026 Poetry Feature

BRIONNE JANAE
did you keep your mind? / you got to walk it for yourself / and on returning what state did you find it in? / as in what state were you in? / were you where you left yourself? / and who was left? / was anyone left? / and how sure were you that you could reach them?