I have spent years learning the language
of this house,
that is to say – the story of the people
who owned it before. The pink
on the front door linoleum. The
purple nail polish
that I’d hoped was evidence of
a former paint colour, between
the tub and the floor. The single
piece of scotch tape
on the kitchen ceiling. Why only one, and
why where it is? Yesterday,
whilst retrieving fallen favourite spatula
something new: two bottles
of cumin, under the stove’s rear corners.
Both open, missing a tiny bit. Practically
identical. A spice-rack location hypothesis
apparates, satisfies an itching mind.
This home, which will never
be wholly ours, yielding secrets still
like glacial melt, like permafrost rise.