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we walked  three miles in the country  
in the dark 
down the lonely roads 
and past the deep swamp
too far away from home to be intimate with, 

to the nearly deserted farmhouse whose family was 
all dead or gone but for three: 
our country school teacher and her brother and sister
	
we were ushered inside
the door creaked

all i remember is the living room, dimly lit in faded 
greys and yellows

to our left, sat the thin grey-haired sister rocking and 
laughing quietly to herself the whole time

to the right, stood the brother – small white-haired man 
wearing worn-out bib overalls – silently leaning against 
the door frame to the kitchen

miss scott bustled past him and brought a plate of 
poisoned cookies fresh from the oven, and we had 
to eat them knowing we would soon die

after a forever visit, we escaped to continue our
trick-or-treating

we never died, and i’m not sure miss scott did, either

it must have been at least twenty years later that i 
told my children this story as we drove to their 
grandparents’ and we passed that very place

eyeing the old farm skeptically, the kids gasped as 
they saw a wraith-like old woman step up onto the porch

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