Today's poem is by Samantha Pious

Haunting the House
       

I lock the door. I am the door.
The door is locked. Closed up for good.
In the cellar, unwashed clothes.
In the attic window, a neighborhood.

All the doors are locked and barred.
Parlor windows, shuttered tight.
An iron weathervane stands guard
above the bedroom, in the night.

The floorboards creak. I am the floor
that moans and shivers after dark
while the couple, having snuggled, snore.
The oven burns. I am the spark

that leaps and catches musty drapes.
I am the fire devouring doors
and floors and drawers and all escape.
The fire that quickens and restores.

And now, at last, I am the ground
my embers charred. That bright blue rose
where the iron blade was melted down
sets and re-hardens. Nothing grows.

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Copyright © 2024 Samantha Pious All rights reserved
from Sappho Is Dead
Headmistress Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission