First Home

The front door was pale and blotchy
But its fist clenched my key, unpeeling the hall.
It squatted cold and stared, clutching a leg
Of ham whose skin flaked fat-yellow on the floor.

I found some plums in the fruit-bowl.
Their flesh sagged. Their purple sank.
They swallowed when I touched them.

Then you came back,

Your eyes still waking from the flight,
Your hair grey for the first time
In the morning light.

You hugged me and I noticed
That three garlic cloves had sprouted
Three green shoots in the dish
On top of the spice cupboard.∎

Words by Jamie Walker. Art by Eloïse Fabre.