your father's house

there you go, sitting on the old torn couch, grey and matted and stained with pieces of dead skin so small they make a small matted space by your head. where your father’s head lay back. it has been three months since you occupied his old house and you wonder how to get these stains of his very back and neck off from the chairs and couches. in the kitchen is the smell of sour scales where he would skin and gut and whip the scales from the fish out on the hand-poured concrete in the back that runs down to the river that opens up to the sea. with the jetty and the small boat with oars discarded on the sandy river-beach. where he ate mullet and catfish wrapped in foil and thrown into the grill in the oven with butter stuffed in beside it.

there you are wiping butter onto bread. scouring the oven. hosing down the old fence with grime flicked up on it.

the sink is rusted and filled with knives, carving knives, bread knives and thick scaling knives and the rust has joined them together. you have to pull them to break them apart. the rust somehow ends up on your hands and you sniff the rusty smell, unpleasant in the salty air. salty from the incoming tide and the easterly blowing the spray of waves into the air, whipping them into inscrutable parts, letting them fall around your father’s house.

paint falls off walls. like the dripping sea it tumbles. the walls full with asbestos. the old wooden windows with their stuck-open latches. the sun makes itself into a hundred pieces and stampedes through the windows. skin-dust in the light.