TERESA WHITE

 

Disappearing House

The moon cuts loose
from the headless plain of the city
and overtakes the patient sky.

I turn the porch light off,
look up and lose myself
in the footprints of a face.

You are silhouetted in the pink evening
flush with rooks.
I undo the hasp on the lid
of the roof
and all the stars fall down.

That we have come to this
is no one’s fault.
I raise the sidewalls
and spring rushes in

and in a corner you are
hanging onto a sheet begging
me not to take the house
and everything in it.

There is nothing so empty
as your outstretched hand.