Nellie Unthank

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aged ten, 
walked, starved, froze 
with the Martin Company 
and left her parents in shallow graves 
near the Sweet water. 

The Richards on First South 
hugged their children’s heads to muffle 
Nellie, strapped to a board, without anesthetic,
screaming, her frost-black feet 
removed with a butcher knife 
and a carpenter’s saw. 

After that she walked on her knees, 

married in polygamy to 
William Unthank (of Cedar City) 
who took her home to one room with a dirt floor.
She damped and scraped that floor 
hard and smooth as sandstone, 
washed it every day;

clean muslin curtains at the window, on goods box cupboards, 
Sundays the hearth whitened, 
and Nellie made her way 
knitting crocheting carding wool 
kneeling by the washtub set on blocks
scrubbing townspeople’s clothes on the board
and trading a yeast start for 
a handful of sugar sent in the jar. 

Said never to another operation— 
waddled on leather kneepads in her little skirt
dragging her unhealed stumps 
or pushed herself on a board on wheels. 

Once a year Nellie and her six children cleaned
the meeting house. 
The boys fetched water; 
Annie, Martha, Polly washed the windows.
Nellie scrubbed the floor.