Suicide Cabin

Forsaken,

Tucked in the depths of

Berkshire evergreen mountains,

Condoned as a grave.

A forlorn hunter blasted himself

And bled what he had left into the floorboards.

The story piques my interest

And I wrangle together a team to investigate.

We hike for a mile,

No sign of life,

Except the hunter’s traps

Here and                                                    over there.

A rusted ladder propped against a Pine,

Its lower branches stripped away,

Small studded handles,

A climb to a rotten plywood platform.

A tarnished bear trap,

Snapped,

Without luck.

Chain linked to a fallen tree.

Shotgun shells of yellow and red,

Bronzed caps now a sea-foam green.

I pick one up, and dirt clods and gunpowder

spill onto my hands.

We eventually reach Suicide Cabin,

Moose brown, the wood decays

Like the body inside,

Three days after the neighbor found it.

Centipedes and earwigs,

Writhe between planks,

Moths cling to the outside walls,

Spiders attempt to paint the house white.

Its door creaks like a cricket,

Reluctantly opening,

Disturbing a mass cluster of mosquitoes.

Through the bug cloud,

My hands cover my head,

I duck to my knees,

As they filter out the door.

The scene is painted for me,

One room, One area,

One blot in the center of the room,

Darker than the rest.

The air is difficult to breath.

An off-pink loveseat,

Lacking cushions,

Also stained,

Its left front leg snapped and lying on the floor.

Did he suffer,

Did he shoot to kill,

Didn’t succeed

And rest in peace on this couch…

Wooden shelves that line the wall,

Coffee cans from 1970.

Smokey the Bear story books,

Porcelain animal figurines

I pocket those.

A calendar from the year 2007,

So death was recent in this room.

I can feel it,

In fact, I can taste it, somehow.

On our way back home,

Our journey leads us in the neighbor’s yard.

A series of barks,

From three bloodthirsty hounds.

A fence between them and us,

Their eyes, bloodshot red,

On hind legs,

They might just jump over the fence and kill us, too.

An irate hunter exits his house

And orders us to stop,

And when we do ,he points his finger up, up, up.

“Whatever you do, don’t go in that cabin., you hear…”

I finger the porcelain figurines in my pocket,

As we nod our heads,

And go our separate ways.

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