The House in Which You Do Not Live
There’s a knack to unlocking
the door you’re unfamiliar with,
a certain wiggle of the key.
Imagine yourself navigating
its long and echoing corridor,
climbing the staircase
to the mouth of a silent room.
In the manner of a tourist
draw a mental map : yourself,
stood by an unlit fire
questioning the brass tack of things.
Now. I want you to cross the floor.
Switch on that naked bulb.
I need you to fully experience
the splendour of this house in which
you do not live. And, eventually,
when the time seems right,
I want you to undrape the heavy cloth
from this trio of gilded mirrors
exposing a set of features
that pixelate between yours,
your mother’s and your father’s,
each of you stunned as the other
to be speaking at last
in tongues your hearts
had refused to remember
and only now begin to own.
Paul Clyne lives and works in Fife, Scotland. His poetry has appeared previously in Magma magazine and he has work forthcoming at The Open Mouse later this year. His website can be found at http://paulclyne.moonfruit.com