The Death of the Grapevine
Milledgeville, Georgia
It begins with a torn-away roof, raindrops
on a propped mirror. Quietly, the water
rivulets down the brickwork’s decrepit face
and puddles under a threadbare sofa,
as if unready to sort out all this rummage.
In the basement, the Grapevine’s root,
the town has left its scrapbooks scattered
with Zane Grey novels and cigar boxes,
paralyzed typewriters, chess sets, bottles,
trinkets, rings passed mother to daughter.
The water inches up, hoists first a chair,
then empty trunks, a chaise lounge.
Crates of warped records jostle about:
Eddy Arnold, out-of-print Lawrence Welk.
A mannequin flails and drowns. Last of all,
high on the wall the fuse box flings away
a rain of sparks. 40-watt bulbs flicker out.
The story reported in the Union-Recorder
ends there. Still, in images flashing
between days and acts, the townspeople
see water slipping into their basements--
a flood bearing away the debris of their lives.
Day is drenched as they stand on rooftops,
their children and elders bent in blankets.
Looking at the town—the lake—they pray
for rescue from all this needless accrual,
refugees from what began as weeping.
It begins with a torn-away roof, raindrops
on a propped mirror. Quietly, the water
rivulets down the brickwork’s decrepit face
and puddles under a threadbare sofa,
as if unready to sort out all this rummage.
In the basement, the Grapevine’s root,
the town has left its scrapbooks scattered
with Zane Grey novels and cigar boxes,
paralyzed typewriters, chess sets, bottles,
trinkets, rings passed mother to daughter.
The water inches up, hoists first a chair,
then empty trunks, a chaise lounge.
Crates of warped records jostle about:
Eddy Arnold, out-of-print Lawrence Welk.
A mannequin flails and drowns. Last of all,
high on the wall the fuse box flings away
a rain of sparks. 40-watt bulbs flicker out.
The story reported in the Union-Recorder
ends there. Still, in images flashing
between days and acts, the townspeople
see water slipping into their basements--
a flood bearing away the debris of their lives.
Day is drenched as they stand on rooftops,
their children and elders bent in blankets.
Looking at the town—the lake—they pray
for rescue from all this needless accrual,
refugees from what began as weeping.
Here's an earlier version...
The Death of the Grapevine
Milledgeville, Georgia
It begins with the torn-away roof, soft plinks
on a mirror propped in the dark. Silent water
rivulets down the decrepit face of the brick
and puddles under a threadbare sofa,
as if unready to sort out all the rummage.
In this basement, the root of the Grapevine,
the town's forgotten scrapbooks are scattered
alongside Zane Grey novels and cigar boxes,
paralyzed typewriters, Coke bottles, Clue sets,
trinkets, rings passed from mother to daughter.
The water inches higher, hoists first the chairs,
then chessboards, a chaise lounge, empty trunks.
Milk crates full of warped records jostle about:
Eddy Arnold, out-of-print Lawrence Welk.
A mannequin flails and drowns. Last of all,
the fuse box high on the wall flings away
a rain of sparks. 40-watt bulbs flicker out.
The facts reported by the Union Recorder
end there. Still, in images that flash
between their days and acts, the townspeople
see water slipping into their basements --
a flood to bear away the flotsam of their lives.
In a drenched dawn they huddle on rooftops,
their children and their old shaking in blankets.
Gazing at their town, now a lake, they pray
for rescue -- refugees from what began as only
an accrual of the needless, only weeping.
It begins with the torn-away roof, soft plinks
on a mirror propped in the dark. Silent water
rivulets down the decrepit face of the brick
and puddles under a threadbare sofa,
as if unready to sort out all the rummage.
In this basement, the root of the Grapevine,
the town's forgotten scrapbooks are scattered
alongside Zane Grey novels and cigar boxes,
paralyzed typewriters, Coke bottles, Clue sets,
trinkets, rings passed from mother to daughter.
The water inches higher, hoists first the chairs,
then chessboards, a chaise lounge, empty trunks.
Milk crates full of warped records jostle about:
Eddy Arnold, out-of-print Lawrence Welk.
A mannequin flails and drowns. Last of all,
the fuse box high on the wall flings away
a rain of sparks. 40-watt bulbs flicker out.
The facts reported by the Union Recorder
end there. Still, in images that flash
between their days and acts, the townspeople
see water slipping into their basements --
a flood to bear away the flotsam of their lives.
In a drenched dawn they huddle on rooftops,
their children and their old shaking in blankets.
Gazing at their town, now a lake, they pray
for rescue -- refugees from what began as only
an accrual of the needless, only weeping.
Previously appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology: volume 5, Georgia (Texas Review Press, 2012).
A yet earlier version of this poem first appeared in
The Southern Poetry Anthology, volume 5: Georgia, in 2012,
as "The Death of Auntie Bellum's Attic."
Copyright 2019 (newer version), 2014 (earlier version) by Joshua Lavender.
Back to Poems
The Southern Poetry Anthology, volume 5: Georgia, in 2012,
as "The Death of Auntie Bellum's Attic."
Copyright 2019 (newer version), 2014 (earlier version) by Joshua Lavender.
Back to Poems