Sport 43: 2015
Johanna Aitchison
Johanna Aitchison
From the house where he took her life
‘I gave him his footsteps,’
said the stairs to her upstairs.
‘I gave him five sharp knocks
on my door,’ said her bedroom.
‘I gave him all of my metal,’
said the lock on her door.
‘I gave him her arms floating out
towards him,’ said her open suitcase.
‘I gave him her striped curtains,
her photos tacked to wallpaper,
the silver light shining
off her computer screen,
I gave him her trees, slashed
by wind outside her window,
I gave him blackbirds,
screaming off the power lines,
I gave him the chipped marble
waves of her harbour view,’ said the house.
cups live together
She smashes smoke rings
before she rolls him
into her poems.
‘I’m Darkness,’ says the night,
pausing to poke
her politics at him.
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Where walls steal girls,
the artist visits
his fancy tongue.
‘Let’s count the flowers,
in front of your nice table.’
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That man brings
love-sized shoes.
‘Would you enter my kiss off?’