The Cabin

That long drive that took us 
to all those spruce trees

so skinny

so tall
just an hour from home that

moss-drenched world, ground might give way 
but I couldn’t explore much then. Excitement was  
quad paths with Grandpa, engine revving high 
we thought we were going so fast. 

We’d squeal 
as the Suburban chugged 
past the boats, that marina or moor closed down now 
till we arrived at that impossible roof slanting 
nothing but aesthetic charm, wood 
among the woods, cement path leading past  
the fire pit Grandpa built

the treehouse my oldest siblings hogged, fizzy candies 
dissolving in our mouths. The game 

was to hop those round blocks 

all the way to the dock. It was always 
too cold to swim, dark-green water, slime on the rocks, all the good 
fish gone but I know Grandma loved to sit there because 

they framed that picture so large. Inside, 

shiny helmets 
and so many coats

the toilet you had to flush with your foot

the pike fish petrified

Simon Says under the couch. We’d pet the black bear 

as we went up the stairs, peer 

into its mouth. Put your hand in. We didn't know
the tongue wasn't real. My sisters

got to sleep on bunk beds in the room

with the dolls I didn’t like, staring 
at the diamond-shaped bits of mattress 

sinking through the wires, feet pushing 
up. I don’t remember where I slept.