The New House

Could this room, this massive room
with the undulant hardwood
and dubious electric,

Could this be the altar upon which
hors d’oeuvres are sacrificed?

Could this room hold all our love
and all the thrumming pulses
of all the distant friends

who could, someday, migrate our way,
a check-mark in the distance?

Could this roof, this clef of gutters,
in all its damp hypotenuses, 

could it catch the overhead evils
and guide them to the dirt,
a pachinko of malady?

Could this room, this tiny room,
more radiator than wall,
contain some ancient
brimming coffer?

My love, we both had suffered so
in our palatial cribs.

Like child monarchs, slouched
and sickly and crowded
by friendlessness. 

But what if we nest in these
midwestern tresses to find
that all our busy sorrows

were but a shelf of insufficient depth,
a window angled towards no light,

a sink that could be clogged
with just a crumb of grit?

What kind of evergreen beauty
might lichen up these plaster walls

if we put the green couch 
right here, like this?
 

This poem was originally published in Issue 77 of The Sonora Review.