No. 59
I was born in this house –
there is nothing extraordinary in that –
and I have not lived here for many years
yet it took all this time to understand
that these were the formative days of negativity:
if I scratch away the new layer of wallpaper
I know in dread that I will find
a child’s furtive writing,
Save me.
The fear was, and is not, given shape
but remains a heavy presence
like the carlights strobing the ceiling
the water stains that are faces
the raised voices
and the dead, all open mouths:
even still, I cannot step into this room,
the child is stronger
the darkness, a bed,
the grained spirit features
family bibles stolen from Palestine
a door handle, lightswitch
a small hand cannot reach –
and the steps, I count them yet.
Page(s) 50
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