Shadows in the garden, like open cuts,
bleed out from the gate
in blacks and browns and greys,
apologising for the mess.
An ochre slug crawls over
the blanched, stretched tissue of
a shower curtain,
tiles crack vile, toothy grins.
The drains: filth bubbling
vortexes, like ears full of wax
accompanied by shrill tinnitus,
shriek of violin. Muffled.
Unidentified carpet stains,
cat-shit mines on the grass;
the fruit is browning,
fridge is humming with rot.
There is old grease on the splash-back,
under-sides of cupboards,
and your nails,
in sticky, dusty clumps,
all that, plus
the ceiling water-stains:
Untroubling.
Strange.
Walk the garden trailing a finger
over the chain-link fence,
an arm against
some splintered wood.
Standing still,
ankle-deep in thistles
feeling nothing
but bliss...
A vee of geese.
Can you feel them?
They knew,
even before you,
this hour,
this second, right now -
air, body, house - all of it,
is yours.
Syreeta Muir is sharing her discomfort in Horror Tree: Trembling With Fear, Daily Drunk Mag, The Disappointed Housewife and others. Her photography is featured or upcoming in Barren Magazine and Olney Magazine. Like your Twitter interactions a bit awkward? Find her there as @hungryghostpoet.