House

Caitlin Hyslop-Margison


Pebbles take root in my spine
like little seeds of glass.
Bloodstains bloom out of seeping wounds
as the seconds and years tick past.

Roots rise and entangle my feet,
up from the treacherous ground.
The trees have ancient memories,
their whispers a drumbeat sound.

Over the edge of a cliff,
out in the black iron sea,
a maelstrom waits to grasp its prey,
and yawns around pointed teeth.

The bite of the salt spray stings
the open sores on my lips,
so I spit out the flood and swallow the blood,
and wait out the solar eclipse.

I cloak myself in the shadow
of tales unheard and untold;
light a quivering flame made of pity and blame,
and raise it to fend off the cold.

When I sleep I dream of a house
small and sturdy and sweet
with a trellis of poppies kissing me softly,
wood floor worn under my feet.

I’ve conjured these walls from smoke,
and to ashes and dust they will go,
but the fire has burned the salt from my skin
and the sweat glistens clean on my throat.


* * * * *

Caitlin Hyslop-Margison (she/her) is an emerging writer from Atlantic Canada. She is currently a fourth-year undergraduate student at the University of New Brunswick and is pursuing a dual honours degree in sociology and history.