by Maddy Costa
the paint on the front door is peeling and this might be a sign
mould creeps across the windowsills and this might be a sign
when the living room ceiling broke the TV? that was an unheeded warning
when the bedroom ceiling collapsed in wet dust: that was unfettered metaphor
.
and now it’s here
slumped on the kitchen floor
crouched in the dark
(it has always crouched in the dark)
.
staining the toilet bowl
snappingshoutingscreaminghowling
(angry, always, always ashamed)
flails its words as punching fists
now, a fortnight, a lifetime
.
bile rains, fury rains
new cracks in the wall
new scratches in the glass
three years, since early summer, inherited, ancestral
(always it was always it was all ways)
.
and no one really knows
if disturbance is the pall
the oil-thick pool, obsidian cave
or if disturbance is the joy that flashes
innocent of depth, its airless pressure
.
bleach the mould, plaster the cracks
stuff grief in the gaps between floorboards
think the word no
(think the word no)
swallow guilt with last week’s leftovers
.
Maddy Costa is one of the co-curators of Something Other
Something Other 