Anatomy of a Haunt­ing


Haunt­ing is the word for de­sire gone ran­cid. I lie awake mak­ing up ghosts from a his­tory of fail­ure. Here is some­one to take the blame for the lost ear­rings, the burnt pan, the pro­ces­sion of cur­dled re­la­tion­ships. Some­one to keep me warm at night.

What small an­i­mal died in your door­way. What bump in the night did you call room­mate so it couldn’t be a mur­derer in the closet, the woman you couldn’t love right re­turned to enu­mer­ate your short­com­ings on the front door.

An un­touch­able moon rises above the mid­night elms. A light­bulb fiz­zles. All this bad en­ergy has to go some­where; why not give it a name and set it a place at the ta­ble, set it loose in the house like a be­wil­dered bird.

Imag­i­na­tion has a sound in­ter­nal logic. I make up some­one to clutch in the dark be­cause I can’t leave the house. No ex­ter­mi­na­tor or priest will come. Spec­tral ac­tiv­ity is just one more thing I can’t cor­rectly iden­tify.

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