It was only when I moved in with him
that the corners became square
like a suburban grid
or a bald business-man’s forehead.
A Victorian worker’s cottage
the rooms came off the corridor
next next next to the right
like a military salute.
He too, once fresh and wavey
seemed to become straight –
his words threw washing lines
across the kitchen, wove
dense black nets across windows
which lay as close to my mouth
as a widow’s veil.
I sunk lower, my body
a long thin cat
curled into ever decreasing circles.
My fingers padded the air
like a Martian’s antennae
waiting for a signal.

The signals came.
I painted the walls yellow –
a kid’s raincoat, a crayon sun.
I broke a plate accidentally
on purpose.
I raided the oppie for prissie florals
then side by side
we threw surplus ceramics
onto the boxy courtyard’s cement.
We became all Greek.
We danced like Wendy’s Indians
we shot at each other like Bugsy Malone.
We had a lot of sex
(an old-fashioned exorcism
I trembled and sweated).
We invited Coltrane to play from the ceiling
Patti Smith to kick in the doors –
the house filled with air
the hallway ballooned –
and like a side show fat lady
prying open the roof
I howled at the moon
and was home.