An unfinished house in the woods—
post and beam construction,
a couple of sheets of wallboard
to cut and nail into place.
Furniture still wrapped in plastic.
Fresh new ghosts ironed, laid out
among the towels and linens.
Some painting left, some wiring,
but otherwise ready for brisk
family quarrels and headlong
make-up sex. Housewarming,
we’ve brought a peppery merlot
and a silky chardonnay. At dusk
the ghosts rustle from the linen
and swagger around upstairs
while downstairs we toast the owners.
You wish them children of every
possible gender, color, and faith.
I wish them sturdy plumbing,
especially a vigorous sump pump.
The ghosts riot like puppies.
We can’t hear but sense them laughing
at our lack of depth. Stones mutter
in the forest, conversing with trees.
Their complex plots never hatch
for lack of mobility. Our friends
agree that the gnashing of owls
over prey incites purple rage
only certain sex acts assuage,
the ones that as a foursome
we’d never dare. But later
when the ghosts tire and retire
and we’ve returned to the city
our friends will attempt those acts
and the police will surely blame us
for the mental arson that follows,
leaving a telltale trail of ash.
