Home Is A Place Where Things Can Go Wrong

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Tallulah Chaynes

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The sun takes its time
The morning light pauses at an intersection not visible from here
In the Kodachrome hyperreality of a blue velvety prologue
A torn off ear in every garden
Where girls like me exist in constant fear of being poisoned by the old lady upstairs
Beyond my busybody vision pale window box poppies
Quail hopping about the untrimmed garden
On wire-grid screen doors bugs alight drawn by the interior light
Panama hat men stop to unleash their dogs that pant
In their own technicolour dream world of veranda houses on tree-lined streets
Droning airplanes in immaculate skies above cherry trees
Oozing out yellow pitch to which a million red ants race
And finally get stuck like middle-aged housewives gathering around garden tables
To play abecedarian dominoes
A family in the driveway watches a kid on a bicycle pop a wheelie
Bicycle brakes squeal long way down
Sinus sounds of teeth grinding
Squirrels wrestle in the branches or skitter across the roof
One millisecond of stillness before the heat explodes in the mind's eye
And day's echoes ricochet uphill
And the first chalk body outlines appear on the tar amid a plague of milkmen
Emblazoned doppelgangers of themselves,
The contours of a fallen paperboy, a silenced countenance, a de-boned body
A fine arse had he

I hear you stirring, quietly coming downstairs
While the clouds above have moved on and left new sky
How many words have I left
Each could outlast me
Scribbling anything that makes sense, sitting cross-legged on the sofa
Time erodes, what's dear, what's near is past too soon
After I die, after I faked my death on instagram
I want my poetry numbered, catalogued and archived
In the temperature controlled basement of a bunker
But above all else
I want a pony

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