Monday 15 November 2010

Forced Home

The box of fluorescent memories
stands a little flushed,
where flowers have flowered,
and branches have branched
to broach the open doorway
- a ribbon around the wrapping
of festive ruminations.

I untie the fading hair of memory,
unwrap my crinkling skin,
to find inside a burning hearth,
enflaming the sight of withered wood
around the riddled doorway,
and the patterned carpet, paper thin
dust sprinkled over everything;

the tiny Christmas tree table,
the ornaments of lifeless porcelain,
the clock on the mantle still stuck
at 1 since childhood,
its tiny door forever locked,
the key a charm on your necklace,
you, asleep, in the cold armchair.

No comments:

Post a Comment