Poem by Valerie Loveland

Ghost Hunter’s Meetup

The leader runs a computer slideshow of houses
like a grim version of my realtor—
pointing out stains on the floor slats, or odd, dim corners.
She says the shadows creep when your eyes drift.

I remain the only member without a ghost story.
I don’t believe in them, so why do I shiver?
Permanent goose bumps cascade my arms;
ball bearings fill my shoulders.

My heavy fevered limbs hold me in my chair,
which squeaks as the walls press in, alley-like.
The meeting room hums.
After the divining rods keep pointing at me,

they recognize I’m another house to study.
It’s true: my nerves fray like old fuse boxes,
and my dreary, mismatched features—not haunted,
but the ideal atmosphere for ghost sightings.

I forget the drive home.
I crumple into bed—sneakers on,
my nametag curling on my sweater.
I sleep and finally see the ghosts.



Valerie Loveland works as a receptionist in a pet resort in Austin, Texas. To read more of her poems, visit her website: valerieloveland.com