Mooretown Log Cabin

Lives quick and heavy lived-

deeply planted.

Quilts sewn by red fingers

raw

1002 stitches a night before

the burned wick;

scraps dropped on the floor,

weaved into rugs of rippled

colour to

wash over corn manure and

wet wool socks.

Stovefire and soot steep

the familial air, the timbers

where hard wooden

lines run into

chairs and backboards

like a y-axis.

These sun-soaked shadows

permeated with Ediths and

Earls – names no one

has spoken

since S.S. #13 Dawn

recorded the last

under Victoria’s

steely stare.