Moving

by Ruth Quinlan

 

There is little of me here now.

The final days of sweating, bleaching 

erase all but coffee rings on the table, 

blushes of wine on the couch, 

Blu Tack stains on walls from seven calendars.

 

This slate has been wiped clean of me 

and I know it will be just months 

before the details start to slip – 

the slam of the kitchen door,

the jolt of the shower pump,

the hum of the old fridge at night 

when everything else has fallen quiet.

 

Those tiny percussions of home 

that someone else must learn 

while I begin leaving my mark 

elsewhere,

pressing ochre hand-prints 

against a different cave wall

to prove that I’m still here

but there instead.

 

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