I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House Page #3

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on the sides of the highways

had turned mostly black.

It rained too much in the spring,

and the fruit in the trees hung heavy

at the ends of bent branches.

The sun in the summer months

was unreasonably hot

and stung my bare shoulders

whenever I let it.

I remember thinking

that it felt like fall would never come.

And then it never did.

Hello?

Polly!

Polly?

I have heard myself say

that a house with a death in it

can never again be bought

or sold by the living.

It can only be borrowed from its ghosts.

And so it is.

The house that stands

at the end of Teacup Road

near the town of Braintree, Massachusetts.

You may borrow it from me.

Because the memory of a death

is a thing that stays,

pressed deeply in place

like type on paper.

Even after it has been covered up

with nothing left to see.

And still I think I'll stay

for one more look at her.

This is how I let myself rot.

The pretty thing you are looking at...

is me.

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