The Cabin

 
—in memory of Earl R. Jones,

                           with much love

 

We kept HEMP in the gully

between the cabin

and the crude outhouse—

wooden on three sides,

burlap door on the other, a bucket inside.

Likely the heavy green boat was

worthless, except to us.  Someone

stole it anyhow.  Daddy built her,

named her for us:  Helen . . . Elsie . . .

Michael . . . and Pam . . .  HEMP.  We

suggested a final e—for Earl.  Daddy said,

“No!”  We put her in the river

a time or two before she was gone.

 

I wonder if the thief loved that boat

as much as we did.

 

On the Fourth of July, Daddy always

lit firecrackers in his hand, seated

on the hill in front of the cabin,

throwing them hard.

We loved hearing them bang,

watching them fire the dark, exploding high

above Spring River.  Perhaps the echo

of their report still rings those waters,

meandering through Oklahoma

on the way to the Grand

Lake of the Cherokees.

 

The cabin lies in ruins.  A small patch

of concrete, poured from ready-mix and water

that Daddy and Mum carried,

bucketful at a time from the river,

and the rusty remains

of the old wood stove where Mum’s

canned beef stew

and biscuits turned brown

never tasted so good—all that remain.

Charred window shades,

perhaps falsely mistaken for junk,

once maps in the elementary

school where Paw was janitor turned hero—    

 

salvaging them,

giving new life to priceless treasure.

 

I wonder why some fool thought

a mere stranger could destroy

the cabin

by setting it ablaze.

 

first published in Sanskrit (1998) where it won a 2nd place Gold Circle Award in Open Poetry Award at Columbia University, Spring 1999, later included in Paper Snowflakes, Southern Hum Press.