The Dark Cabin

It had been loved once, 

the dark cabin in the close woods. 

Children played there.

Parents kept the kudzu back 

and the trees cleared.

Light could shine in the windows 

and warm up the rooms. 

They sat on the porch telling stories 

and rocking children. 

A spring fed the lake above the house. 

Neighbors envied their clear, sparkling water. 

The father kept the roof shingles tight

to keep out the rain.

A shed sheltered firewood to warm the house.

The cabin sat in two parts, 

kitchen to the left, sleeping to the right. 

Parents wanted their children away from the fire

that burned hot in the stove.

Children played close to the house. 

Their mother watched them run and laugh 

and knew they were safe. 

Father worked in his fields 

and built a barn to house the animals. 

It was a good place. 

When the family left,

the house closed in upon itself. 

It shed its shingles like tears, and the rains came in. 

Young trees stepped into the yard. 

Kudzu sent out shoots looking for a board, 

a step, to take hold of. 

Fields went back to the wild, 

but the lake stayed clean and clear. 

A man came. 

He cut back the kudzu. 

He cleared a field and planted corn. 

He took the clear, clean water 

and made liquid fire 

which didn’t warm the house.

Children came, but they didn’t play. 

They drank the liquid and slept. 

They cried on tick mattresses crawling with bugs. 

They cried for parents who sang to them

and rocked them on porches, 

for parents who never came.

In time, the children were silent. 

Fire came to the house.

Angry fire that chewed at the man who grew the corn,

made liquid fire and hurt the children, 

fire that cleared away the children’s pain, 

that burned the mattress where they died. 

Fire burned until

the house was clean, 

the fire left,

and the wind cried through the trees. 

2017