By Scott Ward

Artwork by Alli Rowe

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Art is a house that tries to be haunted.   –Emily Dickinson

 

I have locked my Door–

To hold Calvary in.

This is not Expiation–

For my Errors here.

 

Daily I walk the shore–

That laps against my Brain.

A quiet as before

A wedding march begins

 

Permeates this stillness–

This Haunted House of Words

Where the Bee worships–

And wind Transports the Bird.

 

There is no man who knows

My silent Ecstasy–

My words together mar

A white, Inviolate sea–

 

That stretches out like Snow–

Or a wedding gown.

In such a simple Garment,

I would not deign to Drown.

 

I want to hold that Sea–

Its Measure in my palm

and let it give to Me–

Immortal Eponym.

 

There is the ladder of Dust–

The blind casts down–

I go to place my Foot

Upon its Yellow rung–

 

I choose the White election!

Without the cup or host,

I whisper–through the walls–

This house’s lonely ghost.

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