One shot down the throat, bounces off the heart, rips up the carotid artery and into the brain. Cerebrum explodes, circuits fried, blood bursts like oil from a burning well. A life (your own?) passes before your eyes.

A quiet funeral. Friends and family say goodbye, but you don’t leave.

Peregrination. Pilgrimage without destination. You cross the world. You cross the world again. The world is a crossing guard waving you on, on, on. Keep going. Don’t stop here. Don’t stay here. You stop anyway.

You drift into a picturesque suburban home. Blue panelled walls. White picket fence. Green lawn. Pleasant neighbors. A young couple lives in the home. They say they want nothing to do with you. There is a reason no one wants a poltergeist around. You stay anyway.

It is a quiet home. The couple says little to one another, but they hold hands every morning while brushing their teeth. You see love here and you crave it.

You stand at the foot of their bed while they sleep, watching. Their feet stick out from beneath the sheets. Her toenails are painted grey and you feel grey. In the dark, all colors are grey. They begin keeping a bedside lamp on at night but that only enables you to see them more clearly. In the light you find that her toenails are really painted orange and you feel orange. You feel citrus sweet and vitamin c cold resistant. You lean down in the dead of night and put your lips around her left foot and suck. When you back away, her left foot is orange.

Come evenings, you sit with them at the dinner table. You sit in the same chair every night. Your chair is orange. They hold hands beneath the table. They exchange looks. They pretend not to see you. They say grace. They beg God to take you away. God stoops to the earth and bends down over the picturesque suburban home and glares at you through a window with a shining golden sunbeam eye. God reaches a mighty godly hand through the window pane and wraps you in a fist. God pulls his hand away and you are still sitting, and God’s hand is orange.

The couple are alone with you. They are worried, but she smiles mysteriously at him and her lips are orange. He looks at her mysteriously and his eyes are orange.

You sit at the dinner table for months, years, maybe longer. The couple ignores you until one night the husband asks (was it exhaustion? compassion? insanity?) for someone to pass the salt and he is not asking his orange-footed, orange-lipped wife.

You grab the salt shaker. It flies through the air, twirls like a ballerina, geysers orange salt across the walls. There is a reason no one wants a poltergeist around.

The couple begins leaving the bedside lamp off at night, and the room is still orange. You are nestled between the sheets between their feet. Soon you are so big that only you fit on the bed and they sleep on the floor. They hold hands with you while brushing their teeth and their teeth are orange. You are so big that your head hits the ceiling and they are so small they have to stand on step stools to reach the sink. 

They can’t help themselves. They would do anything else, be anyone else if they could. You live the only way you know. You do not want to be alone.  You would leave if you could. They sit underneath the table every night and hold hands with you while you eat oranges for dinner.

The couple is fading. His arms are translucent. Her teeth are gone. His toenails are missing. Her orange waisted liver is failing. You can see right through the skin of his chest and his heart is plaque-stained orange. 

They hire a priest. They buy a ouija board. They burn incense. They eat balanced meals. They exercise regularly. They take a multivitamin. They rub olive oil into their skin. They do a rain dance. They wear moccasins and tie plastic feathers to their hair. They howl and scream and shout at you. They call you names. They froth at the mouth. Too late. They get smaller and smaller and then they are gone.

You are healthy and big. You live in a picturesque suburban home. Orange picket fence. Orange lawn. Pleasant neighbors.

There is a reason no one wants a poltergeist around.