Fall 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1965 |


Granny Hill—no kin of course—said only sayings: "Bad luck to drop your comb! . . . Windstorms come west. . . Bad luck to plant a cedar . . . . It'll shade your grave." Something forgotten, her face became obsessed; She drew a cross-mark in her tracks, Spat in the cross, before she would turn back. The Saint girls mimicked her: Bad luck, bad luck! "Come spend-the-night, girls—We'll eat boiled butter and eggs." Carrying a lantern, Doctor Will One fall night walked her orchard on dead legs, And after that she had his power, A remedy (some, though, severe) For ingrown nails, chapped hands, consumption; She talked fire from a swollen hand, Was never sick herself. Her face resided in a puckered bonnet; Her clothes grew on her like a turtle's shell; Bonnet and skirts smelled faintly henhouse. Her Sally was a goose, Shrill and dried up, And where her baby came from no one knew Unless it was George Jeans Who drove the thresh. But there was harmless, Foolish John, A man's beard, rou

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Eleanor Ross Taylor was a writer of poetry, short fiction, and literary criticism. Widow of the noted novelist Peter Taylor (1917–1994), Taylor was associated with a literary circle that included figures such as Randall Jarrell, Robert Lowell, and Robert Penn Warren.

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