by Kirsty Logan

The cabin has windows all around, like ribbon

tying a birthday present. The bow on top a chimney,

rain-sparkled with spiderwebs. He hears the tack


of deer's hooves against packed dirt, the settling of dust

into his nostrils from the buttered-wood walls.

A succession of pin-up girls wave at him


from the torn-edged calendar. Home,

he breathes to the snow-capped hills.

Home, he calls to the rabbits hiding

behind their ears. Home, he shouts


to the sky, the sky, the sky.