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Centered

Alisha Erin Hillam

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This is the story of the road that goes to my house,
and what ghosts there do remain.
—“July! July!,” Colin Meloy

You will come here, centered,
going sixty. It is bright
outside, like always.

The maples rustle, choking,
the barn rusting, the road gray
and straight, lined

with deep and weedy
ditches. Everything is brilliant
in the glare of the sun.

You will peer
through the windows, cracked.
It is dark inside. The locked

doors know you;
they will let you in.
You will steal

into the rooms, disconsolate
and fading. They watch.
Venture up the stairs,

to cobwebbed bedrooms. Sagging
sills, moldered wood. Stained
wallpaper. Dust. You

will walk to the center
of the room. Lie
down. Close

your eyes. Breathe.
You will hear
the old refrigerator hum,

a dry growl
circling up
from the kitchen.