House Hunters

House Hunters


Under the spindlework arch of the wraparound
porch, no one ever thinks they’ll expose
the original hardwood for its kindling. But no one

ever likes the wall-to-wall carpets, the disco granite,
the open concept concept. For every wish
for character—the toilet, sink, and clawfoot tub

a demolition green—there is an equal desire
for move-in ready, for a home’s lines to be
as clean as a bowl. At the bay window, a buyer

draws imaginary curtains when she says she wants
to feel the outside when inside. Another wants
to start a family, so descends the narrowing acreage

into the basement she’ll make a cave. When one
ascends the budget, the other makes to slash
her throat with her index finger and the ruin

I imagine spills evenly across the split-level stairs.
On the couch eating cereal, I see myself flash
on the screen gone black between cuts, and soon I too want

to gut the entryway for its potential, want to carve the suites
until what’s left is a plat of bones and my stomach full.

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