---

there are footsteps in the attic.
unopened far before we came,
no one has ever been inside.
we were told to never open
claustrophobic hallway latches.
young children had no reason to.

at night i would listen for them.
my mother said it was the pets
scurrying in other parts of our old home,
but they were unmistakable
heavy footfalls on unfinished wood floors,
creaking household parasites.

their rituals kept me awake while
I stared at windowless moonlight,
eyes cast upwards to the ceiling,
listening to the even beats of the
nighttime mass, singing and stomping
badum…badum…badum…badum…

why did they choose to howl at night
and why perform for the eleven year old
already afraid of their new home?
i wouldn’t sleep without the lights on,
not just warm lamp light but hospital
fluorescent safety blanketing me
in hopes the ghosts would stay up there.

I feared someone was up there, not just ghosts,
an intruder waiting to take me away.
in the dark you cannot tell what is haunting
what is waiting for opportunity to strike.

---

Your favorite poet’s least favorite poet Mae Fraser (any pronouns) combines humor, trauma, body horror, and hopeless romanticism into poems that (they hope) you won’t forget. Their work has most recently appeared in LEVITATE, The Northeast Coast, and others. You can find them somewhere in New Hampshire or online @maeflowerreads.