Summer Issue

Summer 2016 Issue

Appalachian Heritage talks to Sonja Livingston

Appalachian Heritage talks to Sonja Livingston

When the Children Come Home

When the children come home We don’t kill the fatted calf But we do cook both ham and turkey Casseroles and pies and fruit and flowers Table groaning under the sacrament Borne of blood and absence, Every visit prodigal in its intensity But not really: Because they aren’t staying.

Summer 2016 Editor’s Note

Dog days are upon us, those dreaded summer weeks of stifling temperatures and humidity that blanket the mountains and bottomlands. Some evenings, just before the gloaming descends, one can actually see the moisture hanging in the air, a ribbon wending just above the treeline. What helps to make these scorching…

He Tells Her a Love Poem

This is all your fault— Every bit of it. When we came here for the first time, You said, “I want my house right there.” Like I could wave my hand Turn bull thistle, broom sedge, Joe Pye and Goldenrod into Orchard grass and flowers, Turn a wilderness into a…

Beulah

She’s sitting in a straight chair, romance book open, coffee cold with rainbows, alone most of the time with oxygen tank’s tubes and masks, baskets of prescription pill bottles.

Dimestore: A Writer’s Life (Smith)

Lee Smith. Dimestore: A Writer’s Life. Chapel Hill, N.C..: Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2016. 202 pages. Hardcover. $24.95. Dimestore: A Writer’s Life is a collection of fifteen essays, published over the span of twenty years. “This little book,” as Lee Smith called it in a recent reading in Abingdon,…

The Field at Rest

Across a field no one is watching right now, The sun sets through high orange-streaked clouds, Sending citrine light over the meadow canopy, Full summer crowns of maple and white oak, Tulip poplar, shagbark, and layers of scrub pine. Cows keep the grass cropped, but not too short, Far from…

Barn Swallows

They made a sound like wind coming to life, ignition that always startled me, though I knew the swallows would be sleeping there. They hid where I wanted to hide, up in the rafters, up above the loft, above the broken tobacco sticks, unstrung bales of hay, cracked tires, barbed…