House

Erased off the face of my earth, all that remains is a white space,
On it the possible ghost
Of roofline, window. I travel
Looking for myself in all the empty rooms
That say, why did you leave us.

Country of no-one. An open door, a dropped book, a photo of
                                                          me at the age of four.

I wait for myself on the stairs,
Touching a hand along the walls,
Move up behind myself, saying: Stop that.

In the upstairs room is the memory of another solitude; it once
Made bright oxygen that raised my ribcage,
Touched against the insides of the windows, glowed out,
filled up the whole house

To roofline, timbers where now my own ghost climbs,
And sparrow swings in under the roof ridge
Her wings beating
Searching for something she’s hidden there.

Special permission has been granted by the author for Design Observer to reprint this poem online.