For Sale
Margo Taft Stever
My childhood house is stripped,
bared, open to the public.
The for-sale sign impalesthe front pasture, grass
is cut and prim, no trimmings
left to save.Women in sable parade
through halls and men in
tailored suits talk aboutdimensions. They don’t know
lizards present themselves
on the basement stairs or wormsdapple pears in the orchard.
Doors of rabbit hutches
hang from hinges and rustscratches on rust in wind, noise
unheard by workers who
remodel the old farmhouseinto an Italian villa painted peach.
Death can empty a house of shoes
worn and new, of childrenwho climbed the grandfather
trees, impressing outlines like fossils
littering the banks of the creek.
Entirely nostalgic, I’m in love with the enjambment in this poem.