Not a wall -
but memory insulation.
Each room hosts life;
its grasp inextricable
its air warmly familiar
and yet freshly tense.
Not a house -
not bills, bricks, tools or taxes
but the carpet on which little feet sprouted
in rainy evenings and paddling pool splashes.
It is the haven that I learned to call mine;
the home to which I have given my time.
A knot lies in the depths of my frail heart.
It wraps around in a perfect stream of art.
Blood runs through in thick, warm rushes
dyeing the thread maroon as it touches
the sparking, sacred fabric that lives;
fragile and absorbent and quietly big.
But in haste it has unravelled
as water bursts
from what’s now frigid and hollow.
When stability shatters from
under your feet
what are you to do?
I lie unanchored and unready to swim.
And so, I must fit a million memories
into cardboard quadrants
Their many folds
and creases
controlling the tide
as I navigate through
changing dimensions.
Sounds of youth haunt the now
empty hallways
breathing colours hang
in the static chill
concealing
the indelible years.