Molly and Sarah, two girls who in their youth
“may have given their end of town a swinging
reputation,” Garland says, “but if they hastened its
decline, they at least broke the cheerlessness of it.” (p.63)
Grown up, grown old, they would while away
their time, playing cards. “Sarah would get mad
at Molly, and say: ‘I shan’t tell you where I hid
the kerds. I hid them behind the old chest,
but I shan’t tell you.’” (Mann, p.55)
Grown up, grown old, having played
the hand they were dealt—they lay together
(Molly and Sally Jacobs) in tattered rags
pulled up over their chins—they lay together
in their bed through the cold winter
days and nights—the snow fallen and
falling through what was once a roof—
lying there in each others’ arms—
barely moving, only slightly disturbing
the smooth white blanket
that covered them.
— James R. Scrimgeour
From Voices of Dogtown: Poems Arising Out of a Ghost Town Landscape, Loom Press, 2019
The Catfish Review 