THE WHITEWASHED HOUSE

By Philippa Greasley

I don’t remember the clocks facing into the walls

Or the light hanging so low, in this hall.

Souring the air, cheese-butter fog,

Treacle tendrils behind my eyes.

I don’t remember these noises inside

Breathing bruise-marked floorboards

Moth-wing, insect-legs brush my throat

Cotton-cracked ribcage bones.

I don’t remember something growing

Up in the ceiling fissures

A larvae showing, twitching, shaking loose

Landing – knick-knack wet-splat – in the rot below.

I don’t remember these steps going up

To this paper door, child’s crayon marks and bread beetles

Eating bright-waxed lines with endless jaws

Until I pick a hole, perforate, and tear, and push through.

I remember you.

Come home with me.

#DarkPoetsClub