House Hunting

Originally published on Griffel

The downstairs guest room migrates

into the slipstream, tumbling

over insolent rocks. The past beats back

an armchair, mounts a leather sofa,

attaches the coffee table to a leash

and runs across the street.

Here, bright-tongued finches

ripple under the eaves, the history

of my children’s lives chronicled

room to room. Regret will accompany me

alongside unruly bushes, narrow closets,

a swimming pool full of algae and bubbles.

Stretching out of the familiar is like being a vine

that clings to a wall even as it wants

to bust out, beat a retreat, cut and run.

I am wherever my feet are planted.

Does it matter the address, size of the yard,

angle of the sun as it hits the windowpanes?