BOSH.
A wardrobe from a château,
BOSH.
a pair of dark green shutters,
BOSH.
a silver butter knife,
BOSH.
a wooden rocking horse,
BOSH.
a chair a chair a chair…
I barely spoke to anyone that year, was working at
a bar across the road, two minutes from the flat.
I’d come home tired at 2 am, sleep until late
morning,
then watch the French antiques programme
until my shift began at eight.
I knew it was a problem, Ava.
I’d started seeing omens in it –
a ladder with no rungs,
a faceless nun,
the word malle – trunk –
which I heard as mal – wrong.
wrong… wrong… wrong
a man rapping his knuckles on a large
mahogany chest.
Sometimes he’d have the stall owner smell the
money he was offering them, his face made an
exaggerated oooh.
If the cameraman was caught glancingly by
some rococo mirror, or bathroom cabinet – I wouldn’t eat
that day,
instead I would leave a bag of crisps, an
apple, or some cheese for the tiny gods –
delighted gasp and giggle behind the
curtain.
Poor little twins,
they didn’t deserve the weight
of my devotion.
I had to stop, Ava, I knew I did –
I thought that it might happen by default when I
