Moving Day


The slanted sunlight is oblivious, but the room knows.
In the air it tastes the warning of silent stillness.
I drew second pick (single)
in the rooming lottery last night.
I stretch under the sheets, remembering.
The room glows softly.
The papasan has become good friends
with the couch.
(He is still asleep there, his back
to the space, one arm draped over
a cushion.)
Hiding in the corners,
our speakers silently covet
their hidden wires and the hardwood floor.
My orchid, aloe, and sweet potato vine
embrace their spots
with just-right light.
The clock pulls regretfully toward entropy.
I reach for it and, with a click,
spare it the duty of too-harshly
announcing morning.
Soon enough it will be time to disentangle
our belongings and stack
our living space
into individual milk crates.
Time to lug furniture down stairs,
bruising legs and denting walls.
Time to play loud music,
company for emptying rooms.
The bookshelves cringe
under my now estimating glance.
I will wait until
nothing else is left
to strip the wall and untack
the camping photos,
the water color valentine,
and the Giorgio Di Cherico
from the MOMA:
"The Nostalgia of the Infinite."


Corrina Chase