2022
A Postcard from Sandburg’s Cellar ann fox chand o nne t
(Flat Rock, North Carolina) Rabelais in red boards, Whitman in green, Hugo in ten-cent paper covers. Here they stand on shelves . . . —“Interior,” “Leather Leggings,” in Carl Sandburg’s Cornhuskers (1918) Cool. Peaceful down here: peaceful as a dog dreaming on a barn floor. Quiet: no distractions from dusty wind whisking miles of corn tassels. Visitors can scarcely move among these stacks— stories in towers right to the rafters. Sidling past the furnace, you need to hunch your shoulders. I’m moving in tomorrow. All I need is a chaise, a good lamp, a pork chop sandwich and a wedge of gooseberry pie. (Even in Illinois now, gooseberries are rare as hen’s teeth.) In the towers perch endless stories—murders of hungry crows. The towers, the stacks of books take the shape of zigzag rail fence, Of the caboose of the Limited Of Chicago skyscrapers Of a bayonet covered with rust Of chimneys, of steel mills Of blue streamers of wigwam smoke Of axe handles, rakes, raised fingers Of haystacks Of bristling, gleaming spear-handles
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The Lowell Review