Moving Day by Tara Cavanaugh

Take down the smiles, the frames, their faces
and context which only mean something to you,
take down the books and their well-gnawed spines, traces of fingertips that are only your interest,
pack up the rugs and your dirty footprints,
in boxes. Put yourself
and the corner where you sunned yourself like a cat on lazy Sundays,
the drapes like heavy eyelids, closing and opening upon the days,
the mornings, the evenings, the dust in between
now settling on cardboard and tape. Bundle yourself in your arms however awkwardly—
half filled plastic bottles and their swaying weight, the never matching socks—and put yourself away in squares, stackable squares, organized, set width by distance, trapping the sprawl that was your life here. Move
beyond this place and its holey walls, its creaky floors, its unimpressionable iron door handles, its gas oven range that screams no matter your coaxing
the refrigerator door that squeals no matter your speed, the rooms that refuse to bend to you
want you out:
now go. They were never yours and you knew it because they always reminded you,
sticky in their responses, stubborn to your demands, you and your touch screen culture
well they squeak
and they make no apologies.
And while they may groan—
the floor, the faucet handle, the wooden window panes with the white paint spatters—
make no mistake
they won’t miss you.

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