The Writers’ House

I

Ghosts live like this.

And sometimes,
children.

A house full of waiting.

Small hands
smooth
bones
into the flat,
pale finish of the wall.

II

Letters
            slide in
            colonizing
            the furrowed body

Well-fed vowels
            crowd
the bowl-shaped
            heart
            of my hips

III

These are the hard utterances,
each nailed to the square town.

These are the work.

— Catherine Munsee

This article appears in Transformers.