“Come See the Home of the Manic-Psychotic Poet!” the local newspaper byline
reads. My mother invites groups of 10 at a time to investigate my one bedroom
suburban New York apartment. CAUTION tape still decorates my bedroom to
denote the scene of my death. That doesn’t stop the crowd from fingering my ivory
sheets now splattered pinot noir and licking the dust build-up from underneath my
bed. “Such an unctuous young lady,” a man whispers, as he sniffs my neon pink
bikini-style underwear still wet with my period blood. “She was so pure!” a
woman says, repeatedly ascending my fragile poppy pink “Executive Realness”
lipstick until it falls out of the tube entirely. “Soft like lamb’s fur,” another man
moans, caressing a small pool of my dead hair he finds matted into a brush.” “We
certainly will remember her well,” my mom says exhaling heavily. She perks up,
“Would you like to see her poetry collection? Plenty of rare finds available for
purchase,” my mother indicates, as she directs the audience to my living room, “I
accept cash, credit cards, and Venmo. Tips welcome,” she winks at the group. They
roar with laughter, filling the small spaces between my bookshelves, television set
with console, and leaden couch. “This is where my daughter had most of her
hallucinations,” she points to the couch, “She also wrote her best poems here… top
bidder wins, and I’ll even throw in her toothbrush,” she winks again. My mother
and the crowd screech with laugher that grows interminably as their stomachs ache
and throats dry up. Poltergeist, my laughter borders theirs and explodes, juddering
the floral print ceramic plates nestled in my dish rack. The uninvited guests gasp
for air, hands hallowed as they attempt to diminish the giggles now mangling their
throats. I overtake their bodies until their chortles become my own and their faces
grow sunken as they succumb to apparition’s jurisprudence. The incandescent
yellow CAUTION tape watches on as the scene glitters in the sunbeams aggressing
the living room window. It’s a full house!