The houses are photographed with light in mind:
The sun, they say, is shining here. The filter
hints at lemons: fresh laundry on a quaint
old line. The “den” becomes the “family room”
where we’d play rummy and watch TV, the square
footage enough to hold all of our misgivings.
Here I’d be the kind of wife who does not feel
resentment. I’d have a thousand cheeks to turn,
and I’d never hold a grudge. Here I’d become
a Carol or June, selfless and well-groomed.
When I moved in, we built new walls to make
more rooms, but Frost was right—we gave offense:
new walls created doors for them to slam.
When your children left, I whispered my objections,
their fury like a suitcase threatening
to burst. I want a house that holds no past,
the gate unlatched, inviting us to enter
well-lit, neutral rooms where we’d feng shui
the bitterness, hide scars under photographs
of us together, smiling. But in this house,
I am a ghost: invisible, unwanted.
Come Back and Sorry strain my throat. I want
to fix this—douse this fire spitting: Good.
Get out, my apron starched to armor. No
recipe can quell the acid rising
in our throats. Sometimes I dream of gardens—
that same dirt they kick from their cleats could feed us,
grow something to sustain us. But it’s winter.
The ground is cold, and I dare not leave this room;
I want to want to fix this—to love them
after all—but in here I am safe. I’ve space
to rage and pace, dark curtains and a door.
Elizabeth Hazen is a poet and essayist. Her work has appeared in The Best American Poetry, EPOCH, American Literary Review, Shenandoah, Southwest Review, and other journals. She has published two collections of poetry, Chaos Theories and Girls Like Us. She lives in Baltimore with her family.
