GHOST

We moved into the house when you were four months pregnant, which somehow made it even more like a horror movie. All those stairs to the front door, your arms pressed to your kidneys, no electricity. Eating baked beans from the tin like bomb-shelter huddlers, white sheets draping, banshee winds. Real estate tales swooping inside our heads: Going for a song, Making a killing, Renovator’s dream. Apples for desert, red paint waiting in tins: gender neutral for his or her nursery. Nothing but our breathing. Echoes. Breathing.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s