The House at the Summit of Magnolia Road
By Sreya Pyles
The house at the summit of Magnolia Road crouches at a dead end,
faces away from the sun, spills shade halfway down a dim-lit street.
Stone steps tower tall as gallows;
Drapes hang heavy, still as bodies on the curtain rods.
The house at the summit of Magnolia Road is always vacant,
rarely left alone yet always undisturbed.
The house at the summit of Magnolia Road has the serenity of a funeral,
the solace of a grave.
It’s the house that the boys tell tales about. They sprint to its doorstep,
teasing at the doorbells, smashing at the glass.
The house that boys leave when night falls, when trepidation beats temptation.
This is when the house bites back—wood creaks, shadows slip around corners like loose and rabid dogs.
If this house were you (and it could be), I’d march up that hill,
coat my eyelids with the dust that I wipe from your window sills.
I’d peel and pocket strips of purple paint,
paste them onto street poles, slip them into love notes.
If this house were you (and it might be), I’d pick the lock,
shut myself in and trip my way across your uneven floorboards.
Shut off your lights and paint stories on your empty walls.
Shut your door against the cold and keep out the night.
If this house were you (and it is you), I’d make camp in each of your
cobwebbed corners, collect every last rusty nail, every splint of wood,
of shattered glass, roll them between my palms until my fingers bled.
Leave handprints above the hearth, build myself shelter with these broken bits, call it home.
When I’m gone (and one day I must be), a new girl who does not fear the night
will creep up that hill. This girl will drag her finger along your sills, wipe enough dust
to believe this house has never been cleaned. But when she enters, the girl will see my handprint above the hearth, purple paint stripped to spell out my name.
She will ask herself,
Who once lived in the house at the summit of Magnolia Road?
She will ask,
Who breathed this life into her tomb-like rooms?
Whose blood runs through her pipes?
Sreya Pyles is a community college student passionate about using creative writing to facilitate important conversations and lasting social change. She enjoys writing short fiction, both written and performance poetry, and creative nonfiction. Her poetry is heavily influenced by personal experience and current events.
faces away from the sun, spills shade halfway down a dim-lit street.
Stone steps tower tall as gallows;
Drapes hang heavy, still as bodies on the curtain rods.
The house at the summit of Magnolia Road is always vacant,
rarely left alone yet always undisturbed.
The house at the summit of Magnolia Road has the serenity of a funeral,
the solace of a grave.
It’s the house that the boys tell tales about. They sprint to its doorstep,
teasing at the doorbells, smashing at the glass.
The house that boys leave when night falls, when trepidation beats temptation.
This is when the house bites back—wood creaks, shadows slip around corners like loose and rabid dogs.
If this house were you (and it could be), I’d march up that hill,
coat my eyelids with the dust that I wipe from your window sills.
I’d peel and pocket strips of purple paint,
paste them onto street poles, slip them into love notes.
If this house were you (and it might be), I’d pick the lock,
shut myself in and trip my way across your uneven floorboards.
Shut off your lights and paint stories on your empty walls.
Shut your door against the cold and keep out the night.
If this house were you (and it is you), I’d make camp in each of your
cobwebbed corners, collect every last rusty nail, every splint of wood,
of shattered glass, roll them between my palms until my fingers bled.
Leave handprints above the hearth, build myself shelter with these broken bits, call it home.
When I’m gone (and one day I must be), a new girl who does not fear the night
will creep up that hill. This girl will drag her finger along your sills, wipe enough dust
to believe this house has never been cleaned. But when she enters, the girl will see my handprint above the hearth, purple paint stripped to spell out my name.
She will ask herself,
Who once lived in the house at the summit of Magnolia Road?
She will ask,
Who breathed this life into her tomb-like rooms?
Whose blood runs through her pipes?
Sreya Pyles is a community college student passionate about using creative writing to facilitate important conversations and lasting social change. She enjoys writing short fiction, both written and performance poetry, and creative nonfiction. Her poetry is heavily influenced by personal experience and current events.
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