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The Sounds That Wake Me

The Sounds That Wake Me The Sounds That Wake Me Poetry by Savannah Sipple 144 • southerncultures.org // MASON–DIXON LINES I’ll tell you what, Papaw was a drunk, the sweetest man alive. Sober: A good husband; a loving father; he worked hard regardless, but I’ve never heard tell if he was able to keep a job or if the family moved because of his drinking. On a binge, he beat Granny. He’d come home at 2am and beat her and she’d have to fry a chicken or fix something for him and his friends, her brothers, to eat. He beat her with his belt. My mother says she can remember the snap. I wasn’t there, but I can hear it, too, the way it caught the back of Granny’s legs, the way she whimpered don’t. I can see the thin cotton layer of her nightgown that may as well not even been there. I hear the snap, too, almost every day. It’s the same crack I heard when my brother and I tore his bedroom door off the hinges. He was nine and I was fourteen and he went to shut his door as I pushed against it. Hinges cracked loose from frame. I http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Southern Cultures University of North Carolina Press

The Sounds That Wake Me

Southern Cultures , Volume 25 (2) – Jul 10, 2019

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Center for the Study of the American South
ISSN
1534-1488

Abstract

The Sounds That Wake Me Poetry by Savannah Sipple 144 • southerncultures.org // MASON–DIXON LINES I’ll tell you what, Papaw was a drunk, the sweetest man alive. Sober: A good husband; a loving father; he worked hard regardless, but I’ve never heard tell if he was able to keep a job or if the family moved because of his drinking. On a binge, he beat Granny. He’d come home at 2am and beat her and she’d have to fry a chicken or fix something for him and his friends, her brothers, to eat. He beat her with his belt. My mother says she can remember the snap. I wasn’t there, but I can hear it, too, the way it caught the back of Granny’s legs, the way she whimpered don’t. I can see the thin cotton layer of her nightgown that may as well not even been there. I hear the snap, too, almost every day. It’s the same crack I heard when my brother and I tore his bedroom door off the hinges. He was nine and I was fourteen and he went to shut his door as I pushed against it. Hinges cracked loose from frame. I

Journal

Southern CulturesUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jul 10, 2019

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