With the offbeat charm of a
taxidermized giraffe
that spins on its own axis in the middle of a sandstorm, unaffected
by the desert sands that howl
and flake the skin and so affected
carried by the winds that spin the house
on its axis.
Apetalous,
a rose stripped of thorn and flower,
starch paint and stiff glue
binds creaking joints and thinly covers
the scent of dust that floats
from the memory of old couch cushions,
we breathe desperately
the scent of a rose garden that used to grow roses.
this house teeters, off-
kilter,
the square placed with care
on the point of its triangle roof
buffered hopelessly,
and the crosses of the windows perch
unbordered,
which permit the dweller to ignore
the raging sands outside.
Every surface, corner and doorknob resounds
with lack,
bedrooms ring with laughter’s aftermath
speakers pound out the silent beats
of the 80s pop that used to mingle and tease
in a complex affair with Saturday sunlight,
the twitch in the ear of a dead giraffe
is a trick in the light.
Blue-light touchscreen brutally mimics
the familiar click and whir of a cassette in its resting place
where a sullen mess of ingenuity and tape is
stirred to life and music;
a few hesitant notes gaudily decorate the silence.
Each molecule of air, every fibre of this house
resounds with lack,
drifting in aimless absence:
in the kitchen that clings to the dregs of spices
and the scent of curry;
the new armchair undented and foreign;
the windows that filter
stage lighting
onto the living room bedizened
with prop furniture.
The ungainly visage of a taxidermized giraffe
frowns down at me, coldly.
we make small talk,
nod without understanding,
And yet we are inclined to agree that
when the sands stop midair,
hang for a moment on their own axis,
or each suspended on a thin strand of string,
that I must hold on tight to its rigid neck,
and watch the remnants of another life be picked up,
dragged into the sandstorm,
and carried away.
