Ghost House Poem by Dawn Wood

The house brought them, or they bring the house.
Oh, we're not outside, there's no toad, nor bats,
though there's a magnolia tree in the lane,
its waxy petals are out of season,
autumn, though its low limbs are glowing

and vistas of all directions rise from the windows.
She just appears, in a high-necked blouse,
shades of blue, a house keeper's style
and my word, can she talk and smile!
Her mode is after-dinner speech,

explaining, you could make a conduit
from here, this hidden bedroom suite,
like a string held tight between
two tins, a children's play phone,
should you wish to hear them speak.

Her earnest gaze keeps your attention,
until Saint Cecilia slips down
from her stained-glass window and feels her face
to check how they've shaped her lovely features,
her almond eyes. It'll do, she frowns.

Others appear. Do they even remember
their names? Do their names matter?
They don't introduce themselves.
But that you are here, your listening ears?
You know that that's a metaphor,

and as their number and stories increase -
Go in peace, you say in whatever name
you want to use. If that's your say, it will suffice
to give your sweet companions peace.
This is your task, should you refuse?