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GONE AGAIN
by Kathryn Stripling Byer
I used to believe Scarlett would forever be
standing atop that small rise of Georgia clay
staring at Tara, intoning, “Tomorrow, tomorrow,”
that sad pace of syllables, the old South
newly colorized, ready to hoodwink another generation
of belles. But I won’t be among them,
no doddering old lady still mewling of how
I remember my mother reciting her tales
of the premiere at the Fox, all Atlanta agape
at the glitterati. No, ma’am,
I have sat through that gorgeous monstrosity
five times in English and once in dubbed
Spanish. Miss Scarlett does not anymore stir
me into a passion of Southernness.
Once I imagined myself limping home
with a worthless mule, nothing but rags
in a wagon, waiting for the moon to reveal
the house still standing, me weeping
into my muddy hands, having survived
such a journey and all for a lost cause.
I didn’t much like Scarlett after the war.
Standing there in the moonlight
was our shining moment, unfazed by
the real sounds of hound dogs
and katydids, down on the road
a horn playing Dixie, its drunk driver heading
back home to his fraternity house.
So frankly, my dear,
I don’t give a damn whether or not Scarlett’s
barbecue ball gown looks brand new
after 62 years. Scarlett makes me feel
tired — all those hours I wasted, enraptured
by someone whose skin was pure
celluloid, whose voice, when the reel came
loose, jibbered like mine when I tried
to pretend I lived just down the road
from that movie set, cotton fields painted
on canvas, the loyal slaves hoisting
up sacks full of nothing
but chaff for the wind, that old
Hollywood hack, to keep blowing away.