Ghost Hotel – Ariel Kusby

If I summoned you into my chest I’d let the poltergeist pulse through muscle.

If I could summon you into a deep yard, under an unbuttoning moon, I’d never stop summoning you.

I’d summon you silken and night-velvet, safe vapor like shower steam, like a hot spring pink body, dressed up in a wet summoning.

I summon that invisibility now with a spell that hangs silent in the air, like a ghost story I hold in my room with fake walls, a hexing cry muffled at midnight.

I will always be summoning you into any empty room.

I am summoning your black root and glitter, your odor amongst the litter of plums out back.

You are summoned black and blossoming to my night garden.

I summon you to enjoy your stay.

Mostly you are summoned pale as your form demands, white as the teeth that hold you, white as my bones like wands that will never stop summoning you.




Ariel Kusby is a writer and bookseller based in Portland, Oregon. She
currently works in the Rose and Orange rooms at Powell’s City of Books,
where she pays special attention to children’s books about witches, odd
cookbooks, and gnome gardening guides. You can check out her writing at

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