it’s – what, nine years now? –
you’d know.
I suppose these boxy multi-purpose rooms don’t suit
the architecture of dreams.
The Big House has winding halls, and grounds,
and countless rooms that shift,
shall I show you around?
Might be nice to take a tour yourself, no?
Come on in,
observe the polished concrete floors, the
big bay windows, and that view! The stars and planets
swimming – the universe in perpetual bloom,
and inside, my previous day unfolding
like a fern,
look there!
You might think that’s my granny on the carpet,
in child’s pose, but things change in the peripherals,
stare directly and you’ll see she is in fact
a rotisserie chicken.
Ava, speak to it,
it might speak back! And tell you all about
its chicken life, that ended in
my kitchen –
that reminds me,
Re: my previous emails about the oven, Ava,
how we have to stick a chopstick through the back
and manually spin the fan like cranking an old car to
make it work,
all those emails to your office…
the dodgy lock,
the rising damp,
that swollen crack across the worktop – Ava, I can’t bear
to press it!
Though it’s begging to be pressed
and no reply until this email, Ava,
Goodlord
that closed compound, enough to
make me housesick, how I hate it!
Hated him too, first time we met
that surveyor more-than-friend
