The house

It was the season of amber skies

and shapes of deer right below.

This was the house we built

in the middle of summer storms —

where we painted the walls

with heavy strokes

and let ourselves sink

into the cushions

of a worn-out sofa.

Dad golfs and cooks.

Saturdays he marinates pigeons.

Mum grazes every room

with the etherealness

of dragonflies’ wings.

My sister lies her ginger curls on the sofa.

The house that survived

and floated in the middle

of summer storms.

No foundations —only held by furious air.

A shape of happiness we couldn’t hold

between our fingers.

Instead we settled for

vague memories

and a sharp, razing end.

It is the very last Tuesday,

and all that is left from my dad

is the smell of kumquats

and freshly cut cigars.

Mum is locked in her room,

and somehow I know

that no matter how close she is,

I’ll never be able to chase her.

My sister lies on the sofa

and has barely moved a curl.

We learnt to keep secrets

but never promises.