A HOUSE IS A CENTER IS A SANCTUARY IS A MAN

by Divya Rajan

 

 

Before Karen Brown embarks on a mission, she researches.
And so before signing the closing agreement, she made multiple trips,
Called her realtor umpteen times, checked the strawberry garden texture
In the backyard, tested the soil pH, whether it’d withstand 
the glorious summer heat beating through the maple leaves.

She tasted the mulberries and the gooseberries, the pepper;
Roasted veggies, sprinkled them as nuggets on top of pizzas,
Pastas and mushroom soups.

She tapped the soil bed, its rhythm drenched
On the insides of upcoming showers and drizzles.

The house, she sniffed the Hershey Brown wall trims.
They weren’t the kind Nachos, her four-legged alter ego, would chew on.
The roof nutmeg,

The color of sediment, walls a hint of bergamot. Years earlier,
While kohl-lining her eyes midnight blue, lying on
A stretcher, she dreamt of a wall print,

Of a bicycle and flowers and glazed tiles, an obscure artist, over a shot of espresso,
On the streets of Amsterdam. The flowers matched this wall.

 

 

 

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