GUEST ROOMS

I dreamed I was walking to my grandparents’ house in Fayetteville.

Just down the corner from Fort Bragg— exactly as I remembered it.

Dark, wallpapered rooms swallowed me in the smell of mothballs.

The air shimmered like stained glass, and olive oil dusted my palms.

I could spend eternity admiring my grandmother’s decorating, a memory box, carefully wrapped as a gift.

Whispers from Marge and Jim spilled from the corners.

Someone could walk in at any minute and catch me

                … haunting the place.

I left the beds made for the other guests, 

wondering who else still had a key.