Open House
My mother conjures a phantom orchard
from the fumes
of her polishing
before the strangers arrive—our pine floors simmer in oil. The scent:
my Italian friend, Safia, in childhood,
who—during her parents’ divorce—
throttled all four of her pet gerbils, tossed them into her backyard’s
oily lemon grove. We drank
tart lemonade while our parents sipped juleps, spun
spears of bluish mint
sheared from the dark side of the house. It’s always
the dark side of the house
in memory. The dark side. We sat
in a circle of frayed wicker.