there's a ghost in this house
infused with the silk dresses folded in trunks
in the damp cool of the basement,
the smell of age and rot
coming in over cedar chips

her presence is felt
in the squeaky hinges
in the bathroom with no lock
in the uneven ceiling
in the dishes dripping in their cradle

she turns up to watch our little lives
our bodies curled in aggressive sleep
and in the moments before we are fully awake
she is almost visible:
stare at the crack in the plaster walls
and her eyes shine through

the house's boards pop at night
like our spines
and we all swallow the truth:

the house isn't settling
she's settling in