new house

geraldine connolly

There's always the illusion
the museum I carry
inside me of coal dust,
black bread, and worn-out brooms
could turn into a seaside palazzo
with framed lithographs
and immaculate linens. There's the hope that some
magical storm could sweep
over my life, making dinners
prepare themselves, dust motes fly
back into the atmosphere
and newspapers slide out of
messy heaps into trash bins.
My marriage, too, could evolve,
like that dream where I grow wings
and escape through sun-filled windows
into the arms of a beautiful stranger.
We two will lie in a chaise longue
in freshly-painted harmony, tend
hothouse orchids on the patio,
and photograph street sweepers at dawn.
We will witness glorious sunsets
behind the Pillars of Hercules
reconstructed on our lawn
where there are no weeds, smudged
windows, or swing sets.
I will indulge my desire
for a Moroccan bathroom
with marble hot tub and a mosaic dragon.
It's not that I can't see that a fresh start
is another white lie, my dream
of arriving at elegance just another
decorative hope embellished with gold braid.
The truth is I will never get around to
painting that dining room mural
and hanging linen swags. My success
is of no consequence to these bare walls.
This ceiling fan could be the one I die beneath.
But I move past misgivings,
chipped stoneware, and tattered book chaos,
carrying dreamy optimism, the throb of salvation
banging in my chest like a drum.