Brand New House
Roseann Erwin

The family's house smells of paint,
new carpet, a freshly planted landscape.
In the cavernous bathroom, beaming double vanities.
I stand at my sink and she at hers.
Mascara - electric blue or kelly green?
Eye shadow - icy plum or yellow sun?
We peer into the mirror,
suck in the cheeks, pucker the lips -
looking like fish, laughing
planing the rouge across our untouched reflections.

The family's house sounds like new wave music,
a hairdryer, her mother calling her downstairs.
What now? The daughter flings her hairbrush,
huffs, I finish my eye shadow.
Like sunlight to sunshine I follow my partner,
I pad through the fluffy carpet,
down Berber white stairs,
catch the image in the mirror.
The woman is screaming about something,
maybe spaghetti sauce, maybe grape juice,
maybe a spot of celery water
that will not remove itself
from her sparkling wall to wall rug.
She clutches a bottle of ill-green Palmolive,
drawing it back and pounding her daughter's head once,
then again, then again,
tears melting the daughter's icy plums,
rain crashing into her electric blue sky -
her eyes and tears and rain turning down,
staining the grout hugging its tile
on the luminous marble floor.
©2001 Roseann Erwin

Institute for Human Communications/Humanities
California State University, Monterey Bay

Design by Arthur Simons