HOUSE HUNTING by Susan Coronel

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?
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