There is a house where ghosts live. Grandmother packs many green suitcases in a room with a floral rug and embroidery over the fireplace. Grandfather is confused. Sister is a ghost in the next room. We are talking about where they will go next. There is a girl who leaves out chicken carcasses for the fairies to visit. She wanders yellow moss covered hills with mist lying over them. Her parents think she is lost and fight over who is to blame. They soak the carcass in water to remove its wishbone. There is a house with a hundred doors to rooms. Guest rooms, family rooms, rooms with strangers trapped inside behind piles of belongings, mattresses pushed against doors, rooms where friends lie bleeding. Doors we shouldn’t open opened. There is a house we get lost finding. Inside are heavy drapes, a roaring fireplace, shiny catalog of miniature people. Outside the weeds are tall as a forest, chaffy heads and sticky cleavers, hand cupped over our naked sex. There is a wide warm clear shallow river filled with thousands of horseshoe crabs. She plunges in the river chased by her large muscular dog drug mind. They float, wash up against the walls of a dam, avoiding the sluice. There is an arch shaped niche in a wall. In it lies a velvet covered throne with an engraved wooden frame. Old objects are placed there and restored. The woman sits and emerges taller by a length, stronger, her skin aglow. There is an island covered in sheep where we eat biscuits made of soft bones. The house is painted white and covered in children’s drawings. We walk the old black dog under a flowered tree. There are coyotes in the attic, hid among broken pottery. They steal down at night to skin the orange cat. The father says “it will mend.” He places the fur pelt back on the cat, and it does.