Language Barrier

I’m here now. A window’s latched
open; now both of us can breathe. I wanted to say

that when I sluiced your sides clean of relationships,
of algae and louse, I heard the gasp. It was an act

of nurture; see how I stroke on your stain, wince at the
graunch and flush of toxins. That ivy gripped like a tick

but I picked it from your fascia and clamped
down the lid. The sides of you darken, absorb

what I spill; it’s a quiet life you have, out here
with the crows. I think I am working up to say

that I dreamt of how you began, of the rise of you all
on a high-density hillside and of your fall to lumber,

of the day your insides were sliced with a roar and nailed to form
an outside. I just flitted in and there you were, countless,

not answering. Hovering at the edge of you, I see
how else to resurrect – the gloss on your door

flakes, drops soft on the slate; that green on your glass
can go. Next week if I can, next week.

You need to know that when out driving my eye
searches out each and every plank in need

of a new coat, softwoods with crusts of algae, fence posts
Precambrian, pea-bright at the base. They register and pitch

into my earth, scream something too long and low
for me to handle. I carry them all home with me,

tucked up in my lungs, my lungs my gut and my head and still
I worry for them, fear they’re too far gone.


Emma Easy writes poetry and nonfiction, and lives in Cornwall, UK. She studied Writing, Nature & Place at the University of Exeter, and has work forthcoming in Lighthouse Journal and Rust + Moth.