For my mum
The art of moving furniture
is best learned young
and from a master you can closely observe,
but also: it runs in the blood.
I watched you, first, for years –
how you’d move couches and tables
and tellies and plants, footstools and cookers and
fridges and beds. Not far, just enough –
to change the colour and feel and space
of the place
and your face
that would change too –
you’d shifted something.
I came of age and moved from viewing to doing.
At twelve, I could shift a wardrobe from one
side of the room to the
other, on my back, like the world’s strangest snail
I’d rearrange my space
and what was behind it.
I turned my expert hand to the bedroom today.
I moved mountains – it was long overdue.
The view from the pillow now is new.
The lamplight shines on my other cheek.
My roots, repotted, sigh with relief
and it’s enough.
From under the bed, I swept out the dust of all my dead dreamings
and all the skins I’ve shed.
I know that the single curled hair of last year’s lover
is just a comma,
in the sentence of these remains.
I know that we can only change the things that we can change.
I get it of course from you: