September 2022

Back to Issue 12

The House is moving

By Paul Magee


Ex girlfriend is sad at news of ‘your tragic loss’ in Brazil.

Empathy is hard to carry off when it’s a postcard

Mardi Gras dancing in a sequined bra.

There’s no space. Samba, samba, samba.

Address and stamp.


Album of photos from Hawaii,

lava boiling into the sea, ignoring the signs.

Letter from Kristina in Spain, has just had LSD.

Pages in Fergus’s distinct hand ‘with Love’ flicker past.

A chaos in sheets.


The Russian address: Pol Magi, Ulitsa Volgina.

A whole folder full of scrawled letters from Moscow

(Pisma s Moskvi). The manila grained as the lines

on the hands which were only alcoholic once, it is for ever.

Otherwise, in minus thirty degrees, it is youth

and just not knowing what to do with love.


A cardboard box, the tape no longer sticks lids shut.

Rips me from life a while

and I drift. It’s a new home.

The past always is. But thrown away.