Victory

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, round black hat,
Round stomach like a two-year-old.
The Saint girls ran from him,
His grinning stare, the way he followed them.
He tore things up—old belts, old hats.
An old suspender was his favorite toy