The story of this house

Here

Beneath the floorboards of this place

There were stacks of newspapers

Damp, black and white

Print peeling onto the fingers

Filled up with stories

About Al Capone

All part of the story of this house

Here beneath the floorboards of this place

I can feel myself begin to rot

Hollow my cheeks

Pallid skin blank eyes

Looking who knows where

Falling out with stories

And with hope

All part of the story of this house

Here beneath the floorboards

I try to lift my head

But my muscles are in a temporary state

Of heaviness of atrophy

And my brain feels dense and empty

Nothing but a dull grey ache

Where sometimes there are dreams

My memories curdle sour and decay

Stories from the past take on a bitter edge

So sharp that it cuts

But I have been here so long

Wasting

I do not bleed any more

All part of the story of this house

This house that is the skeleton of

The home it might have been

And once the meat of me is turned to a discoloured pulp

My heart devoured by mould and the acrid

Stinking smell of my present absence

Has worn away

Once I am taken back to the bones

For I could lay here for so long rather

Than muster the energy

To be

I could lay here for so long for

Like the brides in the bloody chamber

I had not the wits to run before that life was spilled

And now I am this woman that is the skeleton of

The wife she could have been

All part of the story of this house

I brick her up

Burnt clay cement burnt clay

I brick her up inside the walls

Here beneath the floorboards of this place

No longer home but prison

I find an uncomfortable resting site

Damp, dark and cold

Press my spine into the foundations and

Start a conversation with Al

Words pressed into the underside of each plank

Footsteps above

Our little secret

All part of the story of this house

The blood of my heart still pumping

Just

Leaks through the gaps tiny chinks which might let in light

But it drips slow and thickly

Dark splashes on my face as I try to look up there and lift

My Self

From this hole into which I have buried myself

The concrete blocks on my feet a solid reminder of my

Impossible low low state

I can just about make out my own shape up there

And I will myself to fill it

That skeleton of a woman needs fleshing out

With love

And then perhaps the skeleton of a home can be propped up and

Built up with the same

All part of the story of this house

But here and now and today

Beneath the floorboards of this place

I close my tired eyes

Exhale and end

For a short while