The pots and pans of childhood stir me.
We made the heads of Styrofoam
so not to be too heavy on their frail necks.
Hearts? Simply-fashioned, from lumps of stone.
Finding them dead on returning from vacation,
she flushed her six African Cichlids.
The last three nights, I dreamt I was a sail
Lifted, swept and thumped from here to there.
The unconsidered diaries of family life fall open at once favourite recipes,
bittersweet imprints on the page of stained, smeared, sticky memories.
Bellies lined with pyttipanna, we refill our water bottles and stride home from the city centre towards Block 5.
words pass overhead
spoken broken in dialogue slang where South
is said “SOUF”
You scribble on a piece of paper, pausing every two minutes to remember. Your memory isn’t what it used to be. But you try anyway.
We sing the songs filled with sadness,
Songs with lyrics written in silence
any blotched greenery has
the potential to burst
forth into flower.
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
morning with no people, no cars
only today there are no people,
no cars. Today it’s weird, isn’t it?