slowly turning

The stairs feel longer this year.

Nothing in the house has shifted,

yet something gives a small clink behind me

whenever a name slips loose.

A sharp snap in the wall,

and I tap the switch out of habit.

Mornings thin out.

The kettle sits cold after I set it going,

then later boils over quietly,

frost sliding across the bench

and soaking a list I should’ve tossed.

On the fridge, April carries a red smear.

Most squares are rubbed pale.

Pages press through each other—

May over June,

a birthday leaning on a funeral.

The kookaburra magnet keeps slipping

as if the dates drag it down.

I kept small lanterns of memory—

their glass fogs,

their wicks cough out smoke

that drifts into rooms

I’d rather leave shut.

One still holds a faint eucalyptus scent,

though some days it’s only dust.

The rooms feel scooped out.

The air thickens.

The walls give off a low static,

as if the house is holding its breath

longer than I manage.

A cupboard door clicks on its own.

I blame the house,

though maybe it’s the weather.

Still, I move.

A step.

Another.

One of them out of order.

Somewhere between beats

I check the kettle again

and find it warm,

though I don’t recall touching it.

.