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Real Estate

Real Estate Door against the white world: the realtor’s shot as seen through snow. It is called The Love House because it was built as a wedding gift. And we will probably never see it. Nor the book barn. Nor the one with the pink grove, blossoming trees I should know the name of.Tulle tree? Champagne tree? We sleep on the floor. Then, on a pine bed.Then, when that breaks, on the floor again. I see my thumbprints on the lines of your cheeks. I go to death hemmed by paper. I dream of an envelope pressed against teeth.When I wake, it’s only the scent of you, a white hug filling my mouth, a wish for you. Fountain tree? Shortcake tree? Alabama tree? You don’t have a desk. I don’t have a closet.We live by a favor, called in.We live in the in-between, and I worry we won’t find them, the Italy pictures, the sweet moon. But one shot I remember: lying back against the boat, my skirt flicked up to reveal my stockings, arms around my back.We were surprised at how low we drifted, bobbing and heaved. We slipped under the bridges. And I knew then, we knew: we can go anywhere.We can -67- float and float.We can live in the in-between. We can live. Gondola tree. Married tree. This is how our love came back: it never left. -68- ...