House Hunting | Mary Logue
I open each door expecting to see that perfect slant of light
on old wood floors, counters to lean elbows on,
whisper of talk, good talk, rising in the air
like the smell of bread, oven door open,
a welcome made of large closets and possibilities,
windows giving on to lawns peppered
with rabbits half-hidden under branches of pine trees.
What I find are other people’s leftovers,
the houses they are leaving, the knicks and scrapes
they’ve made as they’ve bumped
their way through life,
obscure markings that I don’t want to read.
What I come back to is the door
that opens in me, the door that opens in you,
the rooms we create when we come together.
We will bring them with us wherever we move.
They are furnished with the burnished wood
we have rubbed for years with our bodies.
Here we will live, in the house of ourselves,
and make our home in the world, willfully.
Forest | Mary Logue
Together in the house we swim.
You float in the tub
while I knit a sweater.
I talk on the phone
while you nap on the couch.
The dogs wander between us
like unspoken words.
We touch occasionally.
You pat my head.
I tuck back your hair.
We nod as we pass in the halls.
We recognize each other’s voice
coming from different rooms.
We pass notes about
money and friends and schedules.
The thread of my life tangles
with the thread of yours
until we can’t avoid each other
and fall into bed
arm to arm leg to leg
dreams sprouting from our heads
like new growth in a deep