The House by Tamara Bryan

The house scrubbed clean, still smelled of bread yeast.
That – I imagine – stays
long after the oily realtor smiles, says, “Sign here to sell.”
The crescent of my nail is deep dirt, yellow-gray
like a feather ground under heel, several times.

I’ll admit now, in the living room now empty:
I once used a man for fifteen minute love, not sex
he used to tease me for my clutter
the pile hiding keys, homework
I swore artist, laughed.
The only one to get hurt, of course, was him.

I pad, barefoot, room to room.
Walls dull white, like sun-blanched shells
counters glisten, smell like bleach.
I fall body spread, on floor,
the ragged twists of carpet press familiar.
Even scrubbed clean, the house smells like bread, rising.

I tuck my head, imagine the pillow-like crook
a clavicle, right where neck meets.
I used a man for fifteen minutes, not sex
but that cushion.
Then compared him to the one before,
the mind fuck – I should say love –
in the scattered heap, laundry and day old sketches.

The darkening hours lay thick on the house
so quiet my ears ache for something other than the smell of yeast –
the thudding of feet, shifting clutter
the scratch of pencil on paper and his sigh,
phantoms now, to whisper
and send me in search of another man to use.