Lore

Lore

 

Scratch marks on the inside

of the only door that locks—your

closet—are the glyphs that ghosts are

made of. There is only one

level of drunk that makes us sleep

in that room; as if the whole house weren’t

infected by rumor; here where we pinch

frozen whispers between our elephant thumbs

 

and pinky fingers. Two murders here, before

we played McGuyvers of death and

fashioned nooses from saved shopping

bags & abandoned hair follicles

only to kick each other, kick

until the chandelier crashed and

none of us expired like: the bulbs,

eggs, stories, or back-porch champagne­—

 

popped, frozen, forgotten mid-celebration.

Jealousy drove me to drink it, drink it all.

It’s obstinate to purge the supernatural.

It’s our only excuse. “This house,” she said

“this house has destroyed everything.”