anatomy of a haunted house
I. Bones
the creaking of floors underfoot,
the scream of wrought-iron gates swinging open,
pillar and arch, corner and frame,
the structure of a home holding itself
aloft,
alert,
alive.
II. Stomach
dark and warm
or cold and damp
or dusty-dry;
the windowless spaces—
closet, staircase, basement—
eager to carry and keep and consume and
slowly
digest.
III. Skin
every doorknob,
light switch,
cabinet,
cushion,
socks upon carpet
and hands along walls;
deaf and blind, within itself
the house senses you only,
and always,
by touch.
IV. Hands
windows open cheery-bright or
ominous dark and
giving an illusion of choice,
escape,
a world outside their embrace,
holding you close holding you safe, you're safe,
you're safe because you can see outside,
you can see what it would mean
to leave the body of home.
V. Mouth
what else could it be
but the front door?
yawning, smiling, wide and inviting,
telling you: come in, come in, come in.
the lock under your hand
bolts with the soothing note of a lullaby;
you're safe,
you're home,
come in—
and never-mind the desperate hunger.
VI. Heart
the heart allows the life of a thing,
allows it to continue being what it is.
lacking its own,
the house exists in this state
of arrested decay,
empty and yearning,
swallowing itself
trying to soothe the wretched ache.
beautiful,
bright little thing,
coveted thing,
you live inside and
give it life
again.
