THE HOUSE ON LONDONBERRY
Gregory W. Randall |
 |
Gradually, a house becomes less about walnut washstands
and a maple hutch, less about the proper lighting
of a nude or a still life with packing tape. We discovered
an elephant looming over us with its scaly trunk,
a mermaid braiding her hair at low tide--all
in the rough, dry lake of a bedroom ceiling.
We've made out shapes in the marble tiles while
showering--an owl, a baboon, two ghosts draped
in bed sheets. All summer, open windows admit
the fragrance of pink jasmine, coils of wisteria,
the lush smell of figs fermenting. November
and the walls ember with the glow of persimmons
in a fruit bowl, arbitrating between fall and winter.
A house subsumes its occupants. And so,
we never really leave our prior company. Air
pressed into corners of a room churns with the ghosts
of our younger selves--the naming of feeder fish,
terse conversations, late-night confabs about the future,
resonant sounds made while discovering each other's bodies
along with ample days and prolonged nights of laughter--
the laughter of children suddenly unsupervised.
CC