HORROR Poem: My Body as a Haunted House After Being Assaulted, by Isabel Grey

Your house is your larger body — Kahlil Gibran

My witch’s window is shattered,
the falling glass smells like you.
I’m empty
no telephone to call for help
no plywood or Hefty
and thunderclouds are approaching.

Don’t look at me.

Draught winks attic door open on rusty hinges.
I squeal at molesting breeze descending
into left-behind chairs, scalping my carpet as it settles.
A cowed dress form stands stripped under the gable end
like an unwanted child or artist
whose masterpiece drove him to lose his head.

Don’t look at me.

There are pocket doors jingling change
in the hidden passages of my foreclosed mind.
A reminder that this is more
than being a haunted house, this is
being a haunted house under construction.

Don’t look at me.

Nothing but contiguity serves
as my concrete. I remember
how the previous owner’s feet felt on my floors
but I’ve forgotten his face.
A dank, mildew odor replaced
the residue of housewives’ perfumes.
Such a stupid term, “housewife,”
all houses live alone.

Don’t look at me.

My studs wall bones are broken,
popped like knuckles expelling downy finger caresses.
Some say a ghost’s touch can feel like feathers
but whether or not that’s true is no matter to me,
besides, there used to be pillows here.
Comfort no longer resides,
it died as soon as dust can fall.

Don’t look at me.

Many of my rooms were meant for sleep.
My eyes can flutter, too.
Their Venetian blinds were once lashes of a bashful girl.
See the way moonlight glides over
the medallion on the ceiling
and the few remaining cut-crystal prisms?
Yes, look at my former glory but please,
please, not me.

Don’t look or you’ll see

all the cabinet doors are opening,
all the chairs are stacking impossibly.
I haven’t been welcoming since he left me in shambles.

So, don’t look at me.

– Isabel Grey