Christopher Woods

The Old House, Moving Day

Your hair in a scarf,
My beard two days growing,
Everything around us dissolving,
Uniformed movers, hungover and bored,
Stagger up the walk to our door.

This house should have been more,
Must have been different
Than how it now seems.
More thread for the nest.
Less interior wind
Depending on me, on you,
On the wind outside.

We should have talked more,
Risen earlier.
Held nights in our hands,
Expanded them, doted on them,
Honored them with vigils.
Another phrase, another coat of latex.
Less dust. More light.

This house is what we thought ourselves,
Something so different than what departs
Box by box, bit by bit
Out the door of no return.
Regret is a winter branch
Straight facing the wind.

You know how it is,
How there is no end
To this wind.

Christopher Woods is the author of a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a collection of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. His play, MOONBIRDS, about doomed census-takers at work in an uninhabited desert country, received its NYC premiere by PERSONAL SPACE THEATRICS. He lives in Houston and in Chappell Hill, Texas.

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