Burnt Cabins

For some years now, one
Of my adoptive
Brothers, the strangest
Of them or any
Of our strange family

Has lived in a town
Not really a town
At all, a few stores,
A couple churches,
A small post office,

That goes by the strange
Name of "Burnt Cabins,"
Down in southwestern
Pennsylvania.
My brother likes guns

And has tendencies
One associates
With, say, Howard Hughes,
Such as mason jars
Used as chamberpots.

So, when our sister
First told me the name
Of the place he lived,
I mistakenly
Thought of a motel,

One of those
Scruffy, sad places
Old roads abandoned
By highways harbor
As final redoubts

Of the beginning
Of the auto age.
I thought I misheard
Her first word, that's all.
"Wait. Did you say 'burnt'?"

"Yeh," my sister said
In her amazing,
What-the-hell grumble,
Amazing because
Her faith precludes "hell"

As ordinary
Speech, reserving Hell
For brimstone sermons.
"Really?" I replied,
Brilliant as ever.

"Yeh." She sighed, starting
Into the story
For my benefit.
"A long time ago,
Settlers built cabins

Smack in Indian
Territory." "And?"
I prompted, knowing
How she needs prompting,
Heiress of Pilgrim

Puritanism
And all those stony
Centuries trying
To farm New England.
I missed on that gene,

Caught our father's
Verbose frailty,
Not our taciturn
Mother's resistance
To answer past asked.

"And the government
Burned the cabins down."
"The government? Ours?"
"No. Colonial.
They were too afraid."

"Of what?" "Indian
Uprisings, I guess."
Her tone shrugged as well
As her shoulders. "Things
Don't really change much."

I have learned better
Than to too closely
Ask her anything
About government,
God, or our natures.

"There's a plaque there, now,"
She added, startling
Me with that tidbit,
Unsolicited.
"But no more cabins."

And that was the end
Of that inquiry.
Our brother lives there,
Alone, guns and all,
Burnt Cabins, PA.