The Mobile Press-Register profiles my wife's favorite poet (and friend of SoT) Beth Ann Fennelly:
The Southern reader should know, however, that just because Fennelly is writing about one of our regionally familiar discomforts, she can surprise us with the turns that the subject matter can take, from the humorous (one poem trenchantly observes an abandoned, wheeless police cruiser overtaken by the weed as "kudzu driving, kudzu shotgun, kudzu cuffed in back") to the pain of our shared past a few lines later ("if you need to dump a body, do it here"). The twists and turns reflect the author's truth that when she begins a poem she does not know where it will lead. "If I know what I'm going to say throughout a poem when I begin it, that poem will never be in a book."
Later in the section, Fennelly visits the grave of William Faulkner (just a few minutes from her Oxford home), which "the kudzu wants but is denied." No denial for her, however; in the last poem of the group she senses that she will die one day in Mississippi, and when she is buried,
Then let the kudzu blanket me,
for I always loved the heat,
and let its hands rub out my name,
for I always loved affection.