Old Bones

And Stories Told to A Mohawk Child (A Poem)

Photo by Vanessa Bucceri on Unsplash

The bones of this house smell like whiskey and sweat that dripped down the white skin of my grandfather. Lingering smells still waft through the attic, felled and fallen tamarack and pine enlisted for duty, with my mother’s twin brother who drove the team of horses that pulled the newly chiseled and nailed timber frames.