Don’t make my sister and I go back there.
The haints have won grandma’s house.
Mom’s room has the whooping cough.
Her brother’s brain fever.
Granddad died in the Master bedroom—
There’s not a whiff of his spirit anywhere.
The grandma who painted our toenails
And made us virgin pina coladas is gone.
The one who destroyed mom clogs
The kitchen sink with anger and grief.
Mom sits in grandma’s recliner drinking
Gin Martinis, a ghost in the making.
The haints have won grandma’s house.
Don’t make my sister and I go back there.
Our cousins can have the house,
The silver mint julep cups hidden
In the air conditioning vents, the fancy dresses
Still in shop plastic, the unopened packages
Of humorous cocktail napkins.
Don’t make my sister and I go back there.
The haints have won grandma’s house.
My sister and I already have bouts of possession.
This poem is ectoplasm.