This house

This forgotten house, full

of candle wax and bird droppings,

teacups with brown-coffee stains.

This old school, with the ghosts of hippies

skating in the hallways,

and faded maps of Greenland

tacked to the ceiling.

This small house, all a jumble

of stale laughter and broken chairs,

with chipping gold paint

on a blue background.

This grand mansion, left muttering softly to itself,

quietly decomposing,

an old widow- Nate, let’s dance.

This venerable hovel, well versed in sorrow,

this, the corner where they kept the potatoes,

here, the hearth where they cooked them,

there, the bed where Peggy died when there were none left.

This blue plantation, empty now of all who knew it,

empty of happiness, of new love and old,

but empty also of the pain of those who were kept

against their will,

finally free.



Johanna Johnson-Murphy


Johanna Johnson-Murphy is  a young writer from Seattle, Washington, where she lives with 17 chickens, a gay cat, and many, many musical instruments.


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