renoviction

(1)

moments pass slowly between
these faded green walls
every spot a corner
dim and full
each room with its own
sun bleached carpets and
curtains
the living room with its
half-jewelled chandelier glinting
off our piled books and
mismatched furniture
our plants and pens
and combined dust
our new clutter on old wear

(2)

we pile our new paint
haphazardly on old wear
tear the mossy awning of
the greying balcony
fill this place with all of our noise
thickening the air with strains of
music and laughter,
weeping and laundry,
stomping and dishes.
we live here,
like the people before us lived here,
and make it home
until we can’t anymore.

(3)

i mourn it now, before it’s gone-
and i imagine the home
we’ve made
in tandem with the one we could’ve made,
later.
i remember our first night here,
with our mattress on the floor
the wrong way round
and being giddy
with the smell of new paint
in the new darkness
and laughing, sighing
into the fresh side of my pillow.
and i remember it as well as
the barbecue i wanted to get for
the backyard, the wicker furniture
we would have sat on
late into the evening as the sun went down
and our voices carried the crows that pass
all the way to port moody.

(4)

i can see it now,
in between all the formless
detritus of everything
that does not yet have a spot-
we would have found them spots.
we would have built shelves and
painted murals, held parties and
spilled things on the carpet.
we would have
cooked dinners and fought,
and bought more books to read
on our shitty craigslist-bought couch until it sunk into the
carpet entirely and we got a new
one that someone else wanted to
get rid of.

(5)

we’d carry it up the front steps,
laughing and huffing
under its weight
and drop it unceremoniously
right in front of the tv.
we’d have lunch,
and the world would keep on turning
as we did the dishes and then made dinner
and did the dishes and
then went to bed and then to work.

(6)

lately, the garden has been growing.
we moved in during the winter,
carrying all of our things
over a layer of snow and slipping
the whole way up
our new old stairs.
i couldn’t have pictured
what it looks like now-
the bloom of its tulips
and red flowers,
its dense leaves
and ferns and bushes.
i think we all thought these plants
were dead when this unfamiliar ground emerged from the ice
we’d moved onto,
that we’d be here long enough
to replace what looked like
weeds at first.

(7)

the light filters in grey-mauve
when it rains,
the blinds i called ‘old-lady chic’
when we moved in rippling colour over the blank slate of clouds streaming in
through thin glass windows.
we always forget to turn the
chandelier’s orangey lights on
until late in the evening,
and by then
we’re all sitting in purple
twilight together,
waiting for dinner.

(8)

we could’ve at least added to it.
we would have, i know it.
i wonder if
they’ll keep the garden,
carrying over the hard work of
whoever planted the lush green
growth before we came.
i doubt it- i think even these red flowers, these lace-like ferns, will join our drawings and stains and the tracks we wore into the
carpet with our pacing.
they’ll join the torn awning and
the dusty mauve blinds, the toilet that squeaks once an hour and the low chandelier we all walk into, scattering its half-missing jewels.
these will join
these cool green walls,

(9 / end)

and
they
will
become
rubble
where
our
home
once
stood.