Elsianne Walks Between Quiet Rooms
Farrah Field

This is not a dream kind of dream.

Spanish moss has taken us over,

gone down the jawlines,

around the necks,

and pokes from our sleeves.

Not even the chairs creak anymore.

Walking around a grieving household

makes you think it could be picked up

in the palm and put in the oven.

Come on, little house.  Say something.

Father, Mother, Sister, Sister, Sister, Dead Sister.