House

House,

terra-cotta tiled dropped

in a hillside a Spanish hobbit hole

for my upbringing

brainwashing, house

 

now, to visit

to pull my spirit north and through

the haunting hologram visions of the child-me

dense, profligate with memory

on every pristine street of Santa Barbara

I return to wade through

this palm-trees, hollowed

shaded upbringing, and in truth,

I am uncertain

 

nostalgic, when I want to look at

you and spit-curse

the very ground I played upon

to grab the ghost

memory-me– forcibly

to rip that child from the past to me

to shake him yelling, ‘do you see?’ ‘How do we not see?!’

and then I see, and smiling with a wetting eye

let him be.

 

House, house of a childhood full

and wrong,

all saved and lost

and beautiful,

at my last visit

I walked past the stairs

Lauren and I would

5 am sneak on

to see what Santa brings

turned right at the hallway

before my room

to step into the kitchen that made me

and gaze again with longing

upon the mist-dropped roses in the garden,

and I felt too tall

for the stairs

for the red tiles and grout

for the room with nothing

but a twin size bed, my fatherโ€™s medical books, his bible

and my first four years of paintings,

and I left you

and I locked the door

and I left you


Austin is an artist currently residing in the boroughs of London, England. He describes his work with gold as revolting in excess but still loves it excessively. When he is not throwing himself into his artwork, he can usually be found sniffing out luxurious wines from all over Europe. He likes the year 2045.