By Holly Parkinson
I pick you out on a map a year ago today
Received the blueprints for the house and
traced every sliver of white with my fingers
To then be demolished
A hole within me cut clearly with a tower
Chiselled by a morning choir
I am reduced to nothing
stripped bare and splayed on glorified
parchment
and perhaps a little girl still reaches out for
a dark blue ribbon
and perhaps a spinster cranes her neck to
look above again
but perhaps a hand will brush your walls
and perhaps the wall will exert equal in
return
to breathe with me
respire with my very being
even if for just a second
for the same soft navy to loop around my
wrist
and wave, wave you down the river
I still bow to you, but perhaps you should
bow to me
and ask
‘why do you kneel for what is really only
bricks and mortar?’
Photograph: Stacy via Creative Commons and Flickr
