[Hilary Biehl]

Open House

We called it “house hunting,” as if prepared
to take down houses with a rifle, though
we were surprised by that one tenant who
grizzled the foyer, leaning on his sword.

He didn’t want to leave: that was apparent.
He’d spent a plague there, and some dusty war
the name of which nobody could remember.
The realtor turned to us, said, “Just a moment,”

so we strayed alone into the house
down halls that warped and ambered, crept beyond
the wails of sheeted furniture. We found
ourselves excluded from the surfaces –

elaborate, thick with thought – of dresser drawers
and doorknobs where our likeness should have been.
Even the spoons rejected us. And when
we met the realtor again, of course

we lost no time in making our way back
to the front yard, where we took pictures, posed
with trophies (mailbox, curtains). Though we praised
the house’s mute exterior, it shook

us secretly to think of that old man
somewhere inside it, touching furniture,
shaving in mirrors – unimpressed, aware
how little our appearance there must mean.