MY BODY IS A HAUNTED HOUSE BY AMANDA CRUM

My tongue is a bruised peach 

longing for the dirt it came from

that old language from the holler

living beneath tissue and muscle

tamping down its music 

deep into the soil

My mind is a murder of crows

scattered in every direction

searching for shine in the depths

marking the hours with a watchful eye

always looking for the next 

place to land

My blood is a brittle orchard in autumn

carefully weighing bones like branches

my veins the vines that keep me tethered

I once counted all the scars 

imagined them as ax scores to bark

and wished for an apricot sunset to wash them away

My body is a haunted house

on every level a witch

specters roosting in the beams

beating heart pounding a tattoo

filled with sighs and darkness

and waiting to be filled