Christine LaPlaca – Poetry


one of six kids and their dogs, wild
mountain children
of the earth.

In the early morning, we hike up
the hill to the small cabin.
Doe-eyed from sleep, we are slick-nosed
and sweaty-hairlined pioneers.

At the top we find the cabin BILVA
still standing after twenty-
seven years of neglect, and we roam the
rooms like unwanted guests. I find
chipped orange-flowered plates,
bed frames and the porch couch,
a hollow cabin with the objects of life.

We leave BILVA as it has been
abandoned to dust and nature.
Abandoned as so many times
before by our grandparents,
your father, my mother.

We run with wild-child limbs through
the pines and vines, stomp across
the back porch. Our bows made of colored
pipes and neon-green string shoot
foam-tipped arrows high in the air, over
the telephone wires that separate
us from the sky.

When we’ve run out of light, we roast
mallows on sticks and listen to the
southern drawl of Jack tales, lines
from Sop Doll following us up the hill.

We were six kids and the moon, wild
mountain children quenched
by adventure.