Poem in the Mount Holyoke Forest

the house is white & quiet
& armed with wasp-flecked rose bushes
with lush sky-devouring trees
with jagged pieces of ghost

pried out on dust-darkened days,
the forest gilded into night,
the aria of crickets,
the nocturne of the creek.

the dirt gets caught in
the creases of your mouth,
finds its way into the spaces
where our fingers enlace

as we gather crabapples
by the side of the road —
like small, sour suns in our hands
measuring just under the weight
of you knocking
into my shoulder

the gnomes on the lawn,
the symphony of the beehive above our heads,
the swing, its ropes yanking down the tree branch,

& the house, echoing with its ghosts,
sings its garden further toward the road
calls to us

maybe our ghosts will rest there someday,
a two-story house half-drowned in forest,
coughing up rose bushes
& sunlight trying to tame us
& us offering each other our hands
to stumble down the slope,
away from the wasps in the garden,
away from the glare of the windows,
down into each other.

Caroline Mao is a writer and computer science student at Barnard College Columbia. They love bubble tea and good design.