The old purple drape from my 1970's bed
has put the morris Minor to sleep, the keswick tree
lies dismembered in boxes, Grandma's mangle
is at the wrong angle, smell of swallow shit
and the cold they've left behind; apples, wax
coating them as neglect coats the interior
or a raggedy space every inch inch of which would once
have been in order. I rest in this place
on a day even the noon of which offers only
three high slats of light. Ladders collect,
and the Silver Cross Pram no one has had the heart
to throw out, like the mangle, is at an angle
on the uneven earth floor: What is this place,
its crazy art the logic and logarithm of my start?
First published in Matter 06 (Mews Press, 2006), © Helen Farish 2006, used by permission of the author.