Under the spindlework arch of the wraparound porch, no one ever thinks they’ll expose the original hardwood for its kindling. But no one

ever likes the wall-to-wall carpets, the disco granite, the open concept concept. For every wish for character—the toilet, sink, and clawfoot tub

a demolition green—there is an equal desire for move-in ready, for a home’s lines to be as clean as a bowl. At the bay window, a buyer

draws imaginary curtains when she says she wants to feel the outside when inside. Another wants to start a family, so descends the narrowing acreage

into the basement she’ll make a cave. When one ascends the budget, the other makes to slash her throat with her index finger and the ruin

I imagine spills evenly across the split-level stairs. On the couch eating cereal, I see myself flash on the screen gone black between cuts, and soon I too want

to gut the entryway for its potential, want to carve the suites until what’s left is a plat of bones and my stomach full.