In the midst of feral forests and swollen swamps
45 miles past any townlife,
the Kentucky house sits,
a shell-like corpse,
rheumy windows staring.
Encased within its walls, an old log cabin
dating back a century and a half,
brittle bones lining the main room
held together by dry ligaments of lath.
Light lopes across cracked walls
as if to escape the beams, welt-like scars,
that mar the ceiling.
Clogged pipes like blocked arteries
drive us outside to shit
ever returning the parasites to their earth.
Ancient jars of blood and water,
long rotted fruit in cement shards,
lay broken on pantry shelves.
Outside, the lone tenant lurks,
a black cat, granite eyes glaring,
her back leg hanging by a thread.
LL, 3/14/2009. Prevail.