As if a house could be killed and eaten.
Nothing is fixed. My Nan lived in the same house
for forty-nine years but now it’s been
bulldozed. I still dream of it – of my own hands
driving the spike of the totem tennis pole
into a funnel-web hole in the cracked dry dirt.
Hitting a trance in the front yard
as the honey resin light glows
brighter. Our dreams are a museum
of time, and childhood is love. I’m building
a house in my fantasy life because I’m tired
of renting in Sydney. My Nan was robbed
in the flat where she now lives, and they took
my grandfather’s watch. He doesn’t need it
anymore, of course. Nothing is fixed.
I’m tired of being homeless. I want to build.