by Brett Rutherford
Only a few memories define it
now that it is gone, gone
to the last brick, a place
where two roads meet
in a bramble of scrub trees
and blackberries wild:
Never turn on the lights
in the dining room:
if you flick the switch
you smell smoke
and hear a crackling sound
somewhere behind
the peeling wallpaper.
Never go down those steps
to the cellar. The rats
are there, and they own it.
Tap water is only
for taking a bath.
It is not safe to drink;
the well is poisoned
by the slow seep
of wet ash-piles
from the glowing coke-ovens.
Never go up
to the slanted attic whose one
sole window throws light
one hour a day
on the head and shoulders
of a nameless Greek.
Do not eat the dog's
worm medicine,
even if it looks like
M&Ms.
Never tell anyone
you have learned to levitate
and do not need to touch
foot to stair-tread
coming down from your bedroom.
Never tell anyone
ever again
about your imaginary
playmate. Just lie
and say you were alone.
Both voices were yours.
Smile mysteriously.
When, late at night,
you press your face
to a window pane
and an escaped blank panther,
paws on the window-sill,
regards you eye-to-eye,
tell no one.
When a great storm
comes, run to the porch
to feel the rain-lash
against your face.
Welcome the lightning.
Imagine yourself as one
of the Lombardy poplars
aching for a thunderbolt.
Carry its many rooms
inside you forever,
haunter of your own
haunted house.
