Home Redux

This morning in the garden
the soil smelled sweet.
Something beyond root
or loam.
Something about skin
and the body.
Say mother
or perfumery.
Say memory….
Last night I dreamt
of the old house again.
The rooms appeared larger,
hallways deep and wrong angled.
No end to the floors,
no out there.
Only more doors, lamps on bedside tables
turned low, dishes draining
on a sideboard.
Why that house
when there were so many others?
That house
where there was never remedy,
only more inquiry; unopened boxes, talk
of paintings and rugs lost in transit—so much left
behind.
Today the grapevines reach
their long arms over the roof
of this house
and I wonder
at memory’s storerooms.
At our capacity
to accrue
the framework of windows, attic and crawlspace.
Because I could not work it out then
I interrogate that house again and again,
run the tips of my fingers
over plaster–like a blind person
feeling my way
along the backs of chairs and across lampshades.
I make my way through
the tyranny of rooms.

(Appeared on Terrain.org)

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