Alisha Erin Hillam is an Indiana native, currently living outside Indianapolis with her husband and daughter. She is the recipient of several literary awards from Purdue University and her work has appeared in Brigham Young University’s Inscape literary journal.
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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.