Kat Lehmann
The Predictable Arc of Sunlight
We refinish the wood floors. Paint the walls in Gray Owl, a polite, non-predatory neutral, like the first September day when it’s neither summer nor autumn. New carpet is stretched across the downstairs master, a bedroom that was never used as a bedroom so we could be upstairs with the kids. We flatten the carved moulding as the realtor instructs.
one last gaze
Room by room, our home is anonymized. The reasons painted over. The milestones sanded smooth. Laughter washed to white. Just like the other houses we see for sale. Vacant with a vacuum meant to pull others into it.
the magic fades
At least no one else will have our purple bathroom. The walls we sponged while the baby napped. Someone might purchase our house, but our home is not for sale.
with morning stars
About the Author
Kat Lehmann is a founding co-editor of whiptail: journal of the single-line poem. She serves on the panel for The Haiku Foundation’s Touchstone Distinguished Book Awards. Kat lives on the edge of a Connecticut forest, where she is captivated by the grandiose within the details. katlehmann.weebly.com.