Moving Out, by Sandra M. Gilbert


Darling, I’m pushing the house
into the garden, into the black arms,
the green embrace
of the oaks. Yesterday,

two giants lugged the grand piano,
its synapses still crackling with your tunes,
up the steep steps, the narrow path
to the gate. Now it muses

in the what is this of a warehouse,
and the silence
where it used to stand
has forgotten your forte.

Out in back of the back,
workers dig in unsteady rock,
but now the house is moving
faster than they can hew and hack:

the house has started to unpack:
its walls possess new places,
doors flap open,
windows heave from hinges—

and now the sofas fly
into a maze of ivy,
the hallways gaping
under a hollow of sky!

Only the piano keys,
hidden under their ebony hood,
remember your touch,
and wait, and are still,

and brood.

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