Haunted House


Your house is yellow,

and mine is all white.

I get off the bus,

throw my backpack inside,

and then get on my bike

’cause I’ll see you at 3

at the brick house where our two streets meet.

And Jake says it’s haunted,

but I think he lied.

Still we won’t risk it;

we don’t go inside,

but we play in the backyard

’til we hear your dad’s car.

I’ll see you tomorrow;

goodnight.

Then everything changes

when we turn sixteen

and I trade my bike

for your passenger seat.

And I’ve never noticed,

but your eyes are so green,

and you seem kind of nervous

when you bring up homecoming,

so we fall in love.

No one’s surprised,

except for us.

Then the summer after senior year,

you help me pack my bags in the trunk.

We figure after thirteen years,

eight semesters apart

isn’t really that much.

But we’re in different time zones,

and when I call you, your voice sounds

rushed.

The next time that I see you,

you don’t look at me the same.

When I fly back to college,

there are so many pictures to put away.

The last time I cry over you

is one year later

when I hear her name.

But I get my degree

and rent a house in the city

and everything turns out okay.

Now I’m back in town to see my parents,

and the brick house on their street

has brand-new windows

and the lights are on

and everything looks so clean.

My mom says your name kind of softly

that night at dinner when I ask who bought it,

and I think maybe Jake was right

when he told me that old house

was haunted.



Something So Real

We used to sit on the roof of my car

with legs through the sunroof and eyes toward the stars,

and we’d talk about God and what might be beyond

the walls of the hills we were living between.

We haven’t done that in a year, but we’re back in our spot,

and my hair is cut shorter, and your eyes are looking off.

There’s lake water on your skin,

and tan lines are on your feet

from those strappy shoes you always wear

no matter what you’re doing.

We sit there on a blanket by the water

and you say to me,

I think—

you take a breath—

I think this really isn’t working.

It’s sunset.

You texted me at noon and asked if we could meet

right after I got back in town

here because it’s down the street

from where I live;

you hadn’t wanted me to drive while I was upset.

You look different—

resigned,

somewhat relieved to have surrendered

to your head.

I say, Okay, I understand,

then I cry and you don’t.

I whisper, Hey, feel free to go;

I’m okay walking home alone.

I have cruel words in my throat,

but I know I don’t mean them,

so I stop them in their tracks

instead of letting them follow as you’re leaving.

I was the one who showed you this place,

but the waves might as well be whispering your name.

The sky takes your side—there’s no thunder or rain,

just pink clouds and orange light

and the ending of another day.

I’m young,

and I don’t know it yet,

but I’ll be grateful for the memories up

on that car.

I’ll be glad that we had something so real

it got to break my heart.


Copyright © 2023 by Sophie Diener. Copyright © 2023 by Chloe Purpero Johnson