Three poems from Maya Hough’s dissertation collection, ‘i’m going to miss this’.
artifact
made by hand,
my dad’s work stained with
mum’s bad news.
we eat here,
we cry here, we laugh,
we tell stories.
is a table
valuable? something to keep when
everything must go?
marked with memory
and burns from hot plates,
spilt cups, hands.
is a table
important? it’s so hard to
imagine eating elsewhere.
liminal tongue
more than ever
I can taste this
nowhere space
the cusp of
your lips
the shared spit
that says
I’ll see you soon
a coach fare to London
finds the boxed cat prowling
Victoria, still unsure
of its heartbeat.
exhale
I feel this place
in my lungs
to romanticise its loss
is to mourn my breath
***
my feet are wet
coughed liquid from chest
acknowledge the irony
of grounding myself in the puddle
***
the cherry tree must go
and the pigeons’ nest
the building is uprooted
reduced to simple twigs and spit
***
one day I’ll barely
remember these roads
but leaving now
is wishing for air
