As the entity in their house grows bolder,
the thing between them settles in–knocking
in the walls gets louder, appliances
begin to misbehave. He says it’s all
imagination as plates fly past his head.
What d’you call that? she wonders. What? he says.
At night utensils bang round in their drawers,
the hallway closet creaks and moans, and sleepless
in the small hours of the morning, he finds
the kitchen table standing on the chairs.
She has given up on conversation
when he starts to catalog each crazy thing—
it’s all she says in your imagination,
the light’s the moon’s, that sound is distant trains.