jeudi 20 août 2015

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.


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