Fall 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 Poetry |

The House That Goes Dancing

Not always but sometimes when I put on some music the house it goes dancing down through the yard to cha-cha the willows or up into town to tango the churches. The neighbors, appalled, they call the police. The dogcatcher chases my dogs up the street toward the house that goes dancing in raven-black boots or enormous bed slippers, dragging one leg like an earnest old hunchback through the midsummer gardens gathering garlands to wrap around her roof, she goes dancing, love's house she goes dancing her grief-stricken dance for his unpacked suitcases, his detritus, hair, his hairbrush, his glasses, his letters, his toothbrush, his closets of clothes where I crouch like a thief when the house it goes dancing, a stowaway hiding in big woolen coats, the scent of his body, the smell of him rising. We are shaken and dragged, we are rattled and whirled past the ending, his passing, who waltz out of town, all our mirrors well shattered, our china, our crystal, our lightbulbs, our pictures hav

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