New Haunt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 03, 2018

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Submitted: July 03, 2018

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The yellow is ending

it pulls itself to pieces

will you still be here

to wipe the dust

from the panes

or are you growing up

and closing the shutters

 

When we drive by

those scabby houses

vacant and sagging

do you ever think about

who lived there first

do you ever wonder who

made cakes from  

the clay in the front yard

the beetle graves in window boxes

 

We could clean the curtains

and hang them on the line

I miss the scent of linen

from an hour before ours

we could mend the walls

sew the cracks in the plaster

with cobwebs

our silver spoon collection

in mason jars

fresh paint in the kitchen

 

Will it take columns

to keep our heads raised

can you look beyond 

all that has been

to reclaim an old warmth

the glowing hearth at the center

 

We can break the spell

on this old place

all that has been

does not have to linger 

in the threshold

no shadows where we sleep

we can burn sage 

in the corners

we may let the light in

like it was before

 

Where there is a house

there is history

that we may not rewrite

but we can scrub the stains

from the tile,

we can bed flowers in 

the front yard

there is no house

too unruly

no misery too unyielding 

for us

 

I will meet you there

if you can forgive

the rusted hinges

and torn screen door

if you can forgive

the echoic transgressions

from distant corridors

I will be here, smoothing

the wrinkles from the sheets

peeling the burns 

from the mirrors

 

Our new haunt

faces the east

where the light rises

old sorrows sink beneath

a young garden

come rest among the statues

feel the soil with your palms

it is alive,

it has never been anything

but alive. 


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