CrackedJohanna Emeney
In this drought
a crack has worked its way
up or down our lounge wall –
a crinkle
to a hairline
to a mad jaw of a thing.
The builder talks of settling,
waiting for a change in the weather,
giving it a few days,
and you are fine
with putting panic on hold
for a rainy day,
while I'm on a fault line,
looking up past the picture
you have hung to hide it,
pulling out the settee
to see how much worse
it is tonight,
until the cross-hatch
of buckled tape
and seamed board
look too much
like a mistake
or a torn page.
When wrinkles
spread across ceilings
and doors swell shut
so I have to tug and sweat
to get out,
I expect you to be there
on the other side.
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