Unbuilding a house

by Rachel McCrum

I am unbuilding a house.
Across the living room floor,
bricks lie rubbled.

Without fail, each morning,
I carefully stub my toes,
making sure to curse
ferociously and quietly.

(Today I damned
my grandmother.)

Then, limping and trailing
a damson smear, I heft
a brick into each hand
rub the skin raw
from my palms,
choke on dust particles
and lumber out to the street.

My pyjamas are ripped.

The road outside my house
is becoming cluttered with rocks.

I have tried to line them neatly
along the gutter

thinking that they may be of use
to someone
someplace.

Bricks, even those with
small plum smudges,
may be used to build again

or perhaps, I worry later,
someone will use these rocks
as weapons

a conveniently sized grab for rage
or perhaps a fist sized resistance

hurled against riot shields
or just the irresistible pissed up urge
to shatter windscreens.