House Warming

The first night I was alone,
I took to eating on the wooden floor,
Not having broken the habit
of living off in a borrowed house.

I knew that I’d be gone by June,
my belongings still in another city.
This blank space—no phone, no ref, no
Sofa to sink into—the emptiness.
This house still in repair, the columns
made taller, grander by blank space-
it's mine--something permanent
to root me back.

I slept in a bed that, during the day, folded itself
into a chair. The rest of the house being bare, though a
chandelier hung low over the place where a dining
table ought to go.

That there’s nothing in here but me
The possibilities of this blankness, hope.
As the evening rose, I woke the house,
Opened the lights in my room and danced
a prayer, as the prisms moved, the shadows,
my body rising up to stillness.


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This poem is adapted from Claudia Emerson's "House-Sitting".