LOCAL
POETRY

Emma Fenelon

Unformed and Half-Baked: A Poem for My House

I remember the day we first saw my house
Struggling round the back to boarded doors
The tree hung with unripe figs

Nothing else, we looked and later
It felt right you had seen my house
I was hanging wallpaper when you died

And as I look from further still
I am unsure, did I choose it
Or did it choose me? Or was it because of the tree?

I was thirty-three

Doors stacked and fireplaces stolen
The cat lost under the laying floor

We slept in plaster dust and fleas

I still see the moon from the now-painted room
And my dog is buried in the garden
I wonder does that mean I intend to stay?