He’s sick a lot.
I don’t know why, we’ve never spoken –
maybe it’s the minibuses and he
is my canary, Ava.
At the centre of the car park, he holds his phone
with both hands to his ear –
don’t say that, Mum,
it’s not like that.
no –
Mum?
Hello?
Everyone who stands there shifts in tone –
something in their bodies tells them – you are resonant
– heard, held, whatever they say or do or think is now a
performance,
and I accept my role as audience.
I even saw a fox run past there once, Ava – it was
sort of yapping, but when it hit the centre of the tarmac,
that same sensation seemed to register, and it backed-
up – the fox – stood on that mark, lifted its head
and shrieked.
These voices, monologues, and screams
have entered my sleep,
street osmosis –
squeezing through the membrane of my dreams
and sauntering through the front door of The Big House.
Goodlord.
Do I even own that house?
Leasehold, I guess.
The Big House never feels like mine,
but if not mine then whose, Ava?
The muted drapery. The polished concrete.
The glass –
am I not both the house, and woman walking through it?
Darling… darling…
and yet I still can’t find the basement, Ava,
can’t seem to find the stairs
or door –
It’s possible there are none.
No way in for me…
