The old house in the long field is haunted, everyone says so.
The status of the haunting is confirmed through a collective silence;
It’s made true in the quiet way everyone speaks around it, saying nothing.
Our children do not even know. They play with the moonbugs in the June grass
And they dance by the shabby door where the ghosts polish, sweep, and wait.

Later, when our kids come home for dinner, their eyes are not their eyes.
The words from their mouths twang with dated sounds and sayings.
We feed and we hug small strangers. We tuck in the changelings strangle close.
But they always say please and never smile poorly in family photos.
The children that came from the field do not ask anyone for a second bedtime story.

We know our homes are haunted by the moonbugs and the changelings.
But we do not worry. When we sleep, we hide the kitchen knives, and dream well.
At night, the moonbugs glow by our doors like lanterns or anglers in the deep.
Soon, our house on the quaint cul-de-sac will be like the houses in the fields.
Everyone says so. Everyone speaks on and on about us, saying nothing.