They cut sections from the branches of each tree lining our street. Shaped a
tunnel, for the power line, that we watched grow over.

After you left, the room would wheeze, its emptiness irked me —
hollow echo in the ceiling, flap of the plaster fall, how the door would slam when
the breeze swelled.

I found dents in the lacquered windowsill. Perfect circles,
from your pot plants, like creases discovered in the skin whilst undressing:
crumbled jean pocket, collar seam, the hooks of a twisted bra latch.

One summer, roots seeped into the pipes.

Beneath the kitchen floorboards
the landlord uncovered a pile of dirt, so tall,
its tip touched where we stood for the toaster.

And when it rained pools formed under the house, in search of once-waterways,
rising damp in our lungs, spots on our sleeves.






Aurora Scott writes and makes radio in Melbourne. Her work has been published in places such as Overland, un Magazine, Runway and Seizure, amongst others.

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